I remember being four. Summer. West Orion Drive. A dark cool basement. Daddy longlegs on the screen door at night. Walking barefoot, carefully, through the thistles in the grass. The sound of my mother whistling from behind a door — peekaboo. My dad, reading a newspaper, sitting in a brown recliner. Being asked if I want to go to school. Preschool. A blue plastic sleeping mat. I don’t want to take a nap. I’m not tired and I don’t understand why everybody has to take a nap. I lie there and don’t sleep. Small stools painted like ladybugs. I’m wearing red tights and I wet myself. Crying. Ashamed. Scolded by the teacher. A metal bathroom stall. Sobbing. Trying to take care of things. I only remember that one day of preschool. I wonder if I kept going? Or do I only remember the first traumatic day?
I wonder what my son will remember about being four. Will he only remember an exasperated mother, yelling at him every day? Don’t hit your brother. [Deer in the headlights gaze.] Why did you hit your brother? “Because I like to.” Why did you do that? “Because.” Why did you do this? “Because.” Be careful. [Deer in the headlights gaze.] Pay attention. [Deer in the headlights gaze.] Try not to spill. [Deer in the headlights gaze; invariably spills.] Hurry, get a towel. [Covers ears with hands and cowers.] Why didn’t you hold on to it? [Deer in the headlights gaze.] Eat your dinner. “I done wike it.” Go to the bathroom. “I don’t want to.” Wash your hands. “I don’t want to.” Don’t throw things. [Deer in the headlights gaze.] Why are you whining? [Deer in the headlights gaze.] Please stop whining. [Deer in the headlights gaze.] Stop whining NOW. [Deer in the headlights gaze.] Close the gate. [Deer in the headlights gaze.] Pick that up. “It’s too hard for me.” I TOLD YOU NOT TO HIT YOUR BROTHER. [Deer in the headlights gaze.] Time out. “I done wanna go to time out.” Time for bed. “I done wanna go to bed.” Do you want a spanking? “I pwomise I won’t do it never never again.” Time to get up. “I’m ti-wed. I done wanna get up.” Get dressed. “I done wanna get up.” Hurry up. [Deer in the headlights gaze.] Where are your shoes? “I unno.” That’s not a toy. [Deer in the headlights gaze.] What did you just do? “Nuffing”
I long to be laughing and giggling and hugging him, showering him with love and kindness, but I find myself frazzled and frayed, cross and at the end of my rope. I give him options. I tell him the reward — do this and you’ll get that. The power of now is too much for him, though. He almost always forgoes the reward, so that he can continue in the now. How I want to give him the reward. How I want him to learn to make good choices. But it’s too much for him. I can see him struggle and give in to the power of now.
In his eyes, he must wonder why I am so nice to the baby and why I am so mean to him. And that breaks my heart. I want him to grow up happy and secure, knowing that he is wanted and treasured. Only after a long, trying day, does he finally yield, rest his head on my shoulder, and fall asleep in my arms.
And sometimes, I hold him close, and let the tears roll down.
One singular sensation
Every little step he takes.
One thrilling combination
Every move that he makes.
One smile and suddenly nobody else will do;
One moment in his presence
And you can forget the rest.
For the guy is second best
