Melting ice cream and sunbursts and growing up
A few nights ago, I went into the kitchen to wash out my water glass before heading up to bed. I came into the kitchen to find a mostly empty ice cream container, sitting in a puddle of melted ice cream. A pop-tart wrapper (from a pop-tart enhanced with extra protein, mind you!) with the corner ripped off lying on the floor. A wrapper from packaged peanut butter crackers was not far off. A bowl with a film of milk and a few random soggy cheerios sat close to the ice cream container. And several glasses. And spoons. Always the random stray spoon. I sighed, frustrated with the most likely culprit: The young man who is extremely particular about the food he eats before 9 or 10 p.m. (mostly protein, very light on carbs) and then turns into the stereotypical, insatiable, teenage boy who can’t seem to eat enough. As I muttered a few things to myself about always cleaning up, who should walk in but said 16-year-old boy? A predictable exchange took place: me asking a little more sharply than usual for him to do simple things like use the trash can instead of the floor or counter, put the dishes in the dishwasher or at least, the sink. Him responding with a mix of placating and condescension, which only sharpened the barbs in my responses. He is skilled at this ability to get right under my skin while he remains calm and affable. I can see what is happening, and often, I don’t take the rope. But on this particular night, I was tired and what should’ve been no more than a few minutes of cleaning had been significantly extended.
I went to bed frustrated. Frustrated with him and his seeming lack of concern about the work he created for me. About his unwillingness to take the next step of throwing his trash away, clean up his dishes. Frustrated with myself for not maintaining calm neutrality with expected teenage behavior. For not being better at using humor to communicate about his ridiculousness in a way he would’ve heard better.
The next day came and morning went like any other morning. No grudges held. L left his breakfast dishes in the same place he always does. I have long ago stopped nagging on that one and instead, picked them up and put them in the dishwasher without any of the previous night’s frustration.
And then, mid morning, an email came from one of L’s teachers sharing with us how much she appreciated having him in class. A reminder to me that what I see at home is just one part of who L is, what his world encompasses. A reminder that often, the built-up frustrations of his day come out at home. Just as they did when he was younger and would hold it together all day and then melt down at home. Just as they often did for me.
When L started daycare at 10 months old, he had a rough time. When I came to pick him up, he would be standing at the door, little face pressed against the class, hands on either side of his sweet little face. His eyes would be red from crying. The teachers in his room would tell me he had cried a lot during the day. I started to wish that they would just lie to me. What could I do about my sad little boy? How could I make it better? Not working wasn’t a viable financial option. L would only eat black beans and plain yogurt in addition to his bottles at daycare. He was starving when he came home and was stuck in a pattern of reverse cycle nursing for months. My guilt about having to return to work and knowing that he spent so much of his day crying meant that I fed my little one on demand until I just couldn’t survive on that little sleep anymore.
Several months later, he had finally started eating more food, and was able to transition to the toddler room. Miss Rose was the teacher and L was absolutely smitten with her. Now, when I came to pick him up, he would sometimes try and hide, hoping to stay even longer. The relief that came with this change was enormous. My bright-eyed, rascally little toddler had decided to show up at school. And that made my mama heart so incredibly happy.
Sometimes, as parents, it seems we are learning the same thing over and over again. But with older kids and different circumstances. Things can be hard. So very hard. And you wonder how you will get through. How can you continue to drop your little one off at a place where you know he cries through the day? Can you figure out how to not work? Can you change his environment? Can you get to work earlier and ensure less time at daycare? How can you continue to pick up after a teenager more than capable of finding the trash? How can you frame your words so he listens? What if he behaves this way with roommates? With a partner? Have you failed the people he will live with in the future?
Can you wait?
Be patient.
Know it will change.
Remember that his behavior can be different in different environments.
Every year, around this time, a cerulean blue swath appears in the thin strip of woods behind my house. I can see it through the window when I walk downstairs and when I step outside. I look for it each morning and every time I leave the house. This patch of delicate, blue star-shaped flowers pushes through the brittle brown leaves that have blanketed the ground since last fall. I am pretty sure there are only three or four houses that have a view of these flowers. They occupy a part of the woods not visible from any stretch of road and are up high enough that you can only see them if you are also elevated—as my house, perched up on ledge, is. They feel in many ways, like a secret burst of beauty awakening as spring starts to more firmly push the long, bitterness of winter aside.
Sometimes, I have to get up to a higher elevation, a place outside of my normal routine, and look for the burst of joy that so signifies my L. I used to call him my sunburst because he was always so much light and warmth and energy.
Sometimes, someone else reflects it back to me—sharing their own experience of L, reflecting the way he directed that energy into an assignment or match or performance.
And sometimes, I have to trust that it is there, and what I am getting is the burn out that comes from running so hot, so fast, so full all the time. And just as much as I want to see and feel your warmth, so too do I want to hold the sadness, the worry, the hard.
I finally see
To let you go is the only way to really help you fly
But I’d rather hold on tight
You are a shining star
A bright spot in the universe-Deb Talan
All photos were taken by the exceptional Dana Giuliana, unless otherwise noted.
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