Anne TootillTo Be or Not To Be a Mother -Part Three
March 22nd 2007 17:15
Picking the kids up after school was no easy feat. Actually, Alex, no problem. She couldn’t wait to go home with mommy, but Josh was another story entirely. He loved being in the Threes. He loved playing around all those kids (I still don’t think he was playing with them) and he loved working with all those great building toys (wooden blocks, Legos, Lincoln Logs). And he loved his teacher. But while he loved his teacher, for me the jury was still out. I’m a bit of a mush. A softee at heart. And this woman was very hard-line. Almost militant in her attitude and direction to these tiny tots.
On the other hand Josh seemed to blossom in her group. She gave directions and he followed them. Before entering the Threes his talking skills were pretty limited. I’d spoken to his pediatrician about this but she assured me that he was just a late bloomer so I shouldn’t try to force it and not to worry. Of course I had to worry but what more could I do besides reading and talking to him and encouraging him to chat back. Like everything else, including toilet training, this kid was a hold-out. He just wouldn’t do what he didn’t want to do. So what could I do? I couldn’t make him talk. Right?
Well, apparently, that was not true. Because his teacher in the Threes laid down the law. If he wanted to play with the blocks he had to ask. And not by pointing and doing his best impression of a vocabulary-deprived caveman trying to explain the wheel to his fellow nonverbalizers. No, if he wanted to play with the blocks he had to ask his teacher. With words. And if he wanted to play with the Legos he had to ask his teacher. With words. After a month in the Threes Josh was talking, talking, talking in the class. And when I mentioned to his teacher about his refusing to talk at home. She stared me straight in the eye and in no uncertain terms said, “then ignore him until he does.” What? How could I do that? He’s only a little boy. I have to take care of him.” But she had already moved away, leaving me alone to deal with all my motherly guilt. What a mean, hard human being she was, I thought watching Josh interact with his peers. No grabbing a toy from another child and continuing to play oblivious to the other child’s grief at their sudden loss. He was happy and the kids around him were undisturbed. Maybe this cold, hard woman had hit upon something after all. I decided I would think about it.
But first I had to get the kids home. Having already picked up Alex, I carried her on my hip and approached Josh who was riding around in a Little Tykes Cozy Coup (it had been a beautiful fall day so the Threes were outside on the big plastic playset). It was time to go home I told him but as usual he ignored me, caught up in his own private world. It was as if I didn’t exist. So I gave him the two minute warning and counted down in front of him. But when the time came, he still wouldn’t budge. Keep in mind that while my daughter was in the 5th percentile of height and weight, my son was in the 90th. He was only three but he was often mistaken for five or older. Moving him myself was not an easy task and with Alex on my hip it was nearly impossible to accomplish on my own. And no matter how I reasoned with him, or promised him cookies or toys or threatened to take away playtime with his Legos at home, nothing was getting him to move. He just went on playing as if I didn’t exist.
I could feel my heart start to race. The daycare teachers were staring at me. Why couldn’t I get my son to leave. Other mothers came and left with their kids but fifteen minutes later I was still there. One of the teachers came over to tell me I had to take Josh because another group was coming out and he had to be off the playset when they came. I know I looked frazzled. I could barely think, my thoughts were racing. My face was burning with embarrassment. I couldn’t get him to come. Maybe if I had both hands I could carry him . I’m small like Alex and so I’d already developed a back problem from having had to carry my huge son, kicking and screaming from playgrounds and playsets. So I asked the teacher if she could hold Alex for a minute while I pried him out of the cozy coupe. But she told me she couldn’t and walked away leaving me alone with my toddler and a big little boy who didn’t listen to a word I said.
What could I do? I was in a panic. I leaned over the Cozy Coupe trying to keep Alex from falling off my hip and grabbed Josh’s hand and tried to pull him out of the toy car. But he wouldn’t budge. He was so strong for his age and I was a confirmed light weight getting lighter by the day on my anti-allergy regime. My asthma was kicking up. I looked around and saw the daycare teachers giving me dirty looks as they marched in their young charges. What could I do? What could I do? I’d run out of options.
I don’t know how I came up with the idea. I’d never done it or had it done to me before but without thinking I grabbed Josh’s hair and like magic his obsessive spell was broken. A moment later I released my grip and he was out of the car and happily holding my hand as we walked back to the car. He was unperturbed. I was a wreck. My heart was pounding, my palms were sweating. I felt nauseous and shaky. I felt like a loser and a failure. And worst of all I felt completely alone. But we made it back to the car and back home without incident after that.
The next day after I dropped the kids off at daycare the director called me into her office and told me that a student passing the playground yesterday had seen me abusing my son and planned to turn me into social services. Abusing my son? I couldn’t even kill a bug in the house, how could I ever abuse anyone? She told me that they assured her they knew me well and that I was a good mother having a bad day. Tears stung my eyes. I tried not to cry but it was too late. They were going to take my kids away from me. I was a failure as a mother. I was a failure period. But she was pretty certain they’d convinced her and so they didn’t think anything more would come of it. Then she told me that in the future I should ask for their help if something like that ever happened again. But I had asked and they’d refused. But I couldn’t remind her of this because then she’d be angry with me and I knew she wouldn’t be on my side anymore. Then she’d let them take my kids away from me.
I was so tired. So tired of trying and failing maybe it would be for the best if they did take them away. Maybe the kids and my husband would be better off without me.
That day I went to class and I didn’t have any fun at all. I barely heard a word the teacher said. How could I pull my child’s hair? How could I be so mean and abusive? That student was right, I should be turned in. Turned in and locked up and put in jail and throw away the key. I was no good for anyone. I was a bad, bad mother and person. I deserved to be punished. After class a classmate/friend asked me what was wrong. I was afraid to tell her. The she’d know what a horrible person I was but she just laughed and told me that social services were already camping out regularly on her steps. Apparently, her mother, who had abused her growing up, now wanted to watch her young son (he was in the daycare center too) while she attended classes and my friend refused, so her mother called social services and made up lies about my friend’s mothering. Of course they never could confirm her mother’s stories but she kept on trying. She told me not to worry. I wish I could. If I could just be someone else, someone like her, just for a hour, maybe I could rest. I was so tired.
On the other hand Josh seemed to blossom in her group. She gave directions and he followed them. Before entering the Threes his talking skills were pretty limited. I’d spoken to his pediatrician about this but she assured me that he was just a late bloomer so I shouldn’t try to force it and not to worry. Of course I had to worry but what more could I do besides reading and talking to him and encouraging him to chat back. Like everything else, including toilet training, this kid was a hold-out. He just wouldn’t do what he didn’t want to do. So what could I do? I couldn’t make him talk. Right?
Well, apparently, that was not true. Because his teacher in the Threes laid down the law. If he wanted to play with the blocks he had to ask. And not by pointing and doing his best impression of a vocabulary-deprived caveman trying to explain the wheel to his fellow nonverbalizers. No, if he wanted to play with the blocks he had to ask his teacher. With words. And if he wanted to play with the Legos he had to ask his teacher. With words. After a month in the Threes Josh was talking, talking, talking in the class. And when I mentioned to his teacher about his refusing to talk at home. She stared me straight in the eye and in no uncertain terms said, “then ignore him until he does.” What? How could I do that? He’s only a little boy. I have to take care of him.” But she had already moved away, leaving me alone to deal with all my motherly guilt. What a mean, hard human being she was, I thought watching Josh interact with his peers. No grabbing a toy from another child and continuing to play oblivious to the other child’s grief at their sudden loss. He was happy and the kids around him were undisturbed. Maybe this cold, hard woman had hit upon something after all. I decided I would think about it.
But first I had to get the kids home. Having already picked up Alex, I carried her on my hip and approached Josh who was riding around in a Little Tykes Cozy Coup (it had been a beautiful fall day so the Threes were outside on the big plastic playset). It was time to go home I told him but as usual he ignored me, caught up in his own private world. It was as if I didn’t exist. So I gave him the two minute warning and counted down in front of him. But when the time came, he still wouldn’t budge. Keep in mind that while my daughter was in the 5th percentile of height and weight, my son was in the 90th. He was only three but he was often mistaken for five or older. Moving him myself was not an easy task and with Alex on my hip it was nearly impossible to accomplish on my own. And no matter how I reasoned with him, or promised him cookies or toys or threatened to take away playtime with his Legos at home, nothing was getting him to move. He just went on playing as if I didn’t exist.
I could feel my heart start to race. The daycare teachers were staring at me. Why couldn’t I get my son to leave. Other mothers came and left with their kids but fifteen minutes later I was still there. One of the teachers came over to tell me I had to take Josh because another group was coming out and he had to be off the playset when they came. I know I looked frazzled. I could barely think, my thoughts were racing. My face was burning with embarrassment. I couldn’t get him to come. Maybe if I had both hands I could carry him . I’m small like Alex and so I’d already developed a back problem from having had to carry my huge son, kicking and screaming from playgrounds and playsets. So I asked the teacher if she could hold Alex for a minute while I pried him out of the cozy coupe. But she told me she couldn’t and walked away leaving me alone with my toddler and a big little boy who didn’t listen to a word I said.
What could I do? I was in a panic. I leaned over the Cozy Coupe trying to keep Alex from falling off my hip and grabbed Josh’s hand and tried to pull him out of the toy car. But he wouldn’t budge. He was so strong for his age and I was a confirmed light weight getting lighter by the day on my anti-allergy regime. My asthma was kicking up. I looked around and saw the daycare teachers giving me dirty looks as they marched in their young charges. What could I do? What could I do? I’d run out of options.
I don’t know how I came up with the idea. I’d never done it or had it done to me before but without thinking I grabbed Josh’s hair and like magic his obsessive spell was broken. A moment later I released my grip and he was out of the car and happily holding my hand as we walked back to the car. He was unperturbed. I was a wreck. My heart was pounding, my palms were sweating. I felt nauseous and shaky. I felt like a loser and a failure. And worst of all I felt completely alone. But we made it back to the car and back home without incident after that.
The next day after I dropped the kids off at daycare the director called me into her office and told me that a student passing the playground yesterday had seen me abusing my son and planned to turn me into social services. Abusing my son? I couldn’t even kill a bug in the house, how could I ever abuse anyone? She told me that they assured her they knew me well and that I was a good mother having a bad day. Tears stung my eyes. I tried not to cry but it was too late. They were going to take my kids away from me. I was a failure as a mother. I was a failure period. But she was pretty certain they’d convinced her and so they didn’t think anything more would come of it. Then she told me that in the future I should ask for their help if something like that ever happened again. But I had asked and they’d refused. But I couldn’t remind her of this because then she’d be angry with me and I knew she wouldn’t be on my side anymore. Then she’d let them take my kids away from me.
I was so tired. So tired of trying and failing maybe it would be for the best if they did take them away. Maybe the kids and my husband would be better off without me.
That day I went to class and I didn’t have any fun at all. I barely heard a word the teacher said. How could I pull my child’s hair? How could I be so mean and abusive? That student was right, I should be turned in. Turned in and locked up and put in jail and throw away the key. I was no good for anyone. I was a bad, bad mother and person. I deserved to be punished. After class a classmate/friend asked me what was wrong. I was afraid to tell her. The she’d know what a horrible person I was but she just laughed and told me that social services were already camping out regularly on her steps. Apparently, her mother, who had abused her growing up, now wanted to watch her young son (he was in the daycare center too) while she attended classes and my friend refused, so her mother called social services and made up lies about my friend’s mothering. Of course they never could confirm her mother’s stories but she kept on trying. She told me not to worry. I wish I could. If I could just be someone else, someone like her, just for a hour, maybe I could rest. I was so tired.
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