Is My Son Becoming A Bully?

Okay, so he's only eight. But really? I am so tired of saying the same phrases over and over again.

"Treat other people the same way you would like them to treat you."
"Put yourself in his shoes. How would you feel if someone did that to you?"
"Just because someone else does something bad doesn't give you permission to do it, too."
"I want to be proud of you and this behavior does not make me proud."
"It's okay to not like someone. You don't have to like everybody. But you must be respectful of them anyway."

There are so many more things I repeat on a daily basis about homework, feeding the dogs, limited computer time, but it is really upsetting me that he doesn't get the above.

It's not that we've seen or heard him be mean to anyone (and he has never been in trouble at school) but he recounts scenarios for me when he gets home. Up until now, I thought it was just my son creating stories of what he wished he could've done or said but didn't. And I get that. We all need our release and I'd rather he do it with me. But yesterday I got a hint (I don't know if it's true because the info was very sketchy) that some of his stories might be true.

So, after weeks of trying it the nice way, yesterday hubby and I laid down the law.

"Here's the deal," we announced. "If we see or hear that you've said or done anything to hurt this boy, we will punish you the likes of which you have never seen."

"Take away the WII?" he asked sheepishly.

"No, honey. Bigger than that. We will take away the WII AND ground you. No playdates, no tv, no computer, no nothing but studying and helping me around the house for two weeks."

I have no idea if this was the "right" thing to do but the words did seem to register.

We will soon know for sure.


FOR FULL DISCLOSURE and to be fair, I have heard that this particular boy often joins in games and then tries to bend the rules, stopping everything and whining that no one else is playing fair. My son is not the only one complaining about this boy but it is my son I care about most. Also, this boy is known to kick or shove when he doesn't get his way, so I get how on a daily basis this can be annoying. I have told my son that he should talk to the coaches about this boy but he tells me the coaches tell them to settle things on their own. (Hmmm...Note to self: May have to talk with the coaches.)


** OH, AND A FUNNY SIDE TO THIS STORY: Here is a scene on the play yard as my boy recounted it for me. It gave me a chuckle.

The other boy was acting out and making my boy and his friends mad:

My boy: "What's your issue?"
Other boy: "Nothing."
My boy: "You've got anger management problems."

When did this become playground lingo???

Open House: The Sadness and The Shame

You can feel it in the air. School is winding down. Summer is near, bringing it's promise of more sun and less structure. You can feel weariness in the parents and distraction in the teachers. Everyone has one foot out the door, their minds already settling into a new frontier.

Last night we attended my son's school open house. I read his colorfully, illustrated autobiography, his fictional story of a squirrel, his poems about sports and the deaths of our two dogs. He is a good student, a charming, class clown, well-behaved. I was proud. Yet, as I walked around the second grade classroom and looked at the varied artwork, homemade fossils, and videos of oral presentations, memories of my daughter's first year at the school, in this same classroom, painting the same artwork and reciting the same oral report came flooding back. I felt sad.

Cruising the third grade classrooms, I reunited with my daughter's teacher. The room was familiar and foreign, like visiting your childhood home where the bones are the same but the vibe and the details have changed. I remember checking off homework in the back corner while students shared stories and feelings during circle time. I remember holiday parties, helping the kids decorate picture frames, serving pizza, and singing along with a dad and his guitar.

How did my daughter end up being better that me at math, wearing my clothes, IM chatting, and knowing herself better than I do? When did that happen?

No sooner had I warned the third grade teacher that my son was bold to my daughter's meek and a joker to my daughter's straight man, did my melancholy turn to embarrassment. Going across the hall to meet with another potential teacher, one with whom I have a friendly relationship but whose intimidating reputation precedes her, my son illustrated my observations in an excruciating and painful way.

The following dialogue is paraphrased; I've blocked out the particulars.

"Hi, J. Nice to finally meet you," the teacher offers one of her cheese sticks.
"Gimme," J grabs for the snack.
The teacher holds the cheese out of reach and raises her brows. I interject, "Please, J, say please."
"Puhleeeeze," he obliges as he holds out his hand.
"So," the teacher continues, "are you excited about coming to third grade?"
"What's it to you?" J answers.
"Hmmm," she tilts her head and says, "Well, there are plenty of other nice third grade teachers. I hope you like them."
Silence.
"How nice for you," J offers the last word.
"That is not okay," I reprimand J as the teacher who stayed late to greet us prepares to leave.
"I'm sorry," I say trying to add levity, "At least you've got a 3 out of 4 chance he WON'T be your student next year."

Walking home I became angry - at J and at myself. I tell him I'm disappointed in his behavior, that I expect better. I tell him that I am not proud at this moment as I was earlier in the evening. I scold him, repeating for the umpteenth time that we treat people with respect and re-chanting my mantras "If you don't have anything nice to say..." and, "That's not funny, that's just mean. There's a difference."

I lash out. I can't let it go. Somewhere inside me is the goody two shoes student, desperate for validation, and mortified of any wrongdoing. I am sick to my stomach imagining the teacher judging me.

Over dinner, we tell J that he will write the teacher an apology and hand it to her in person tomorrow. He refuses. We stand down. We repeat, "It is not okay to treat people with disrespect."

"Then why is it okay for him to treat me with disrespect?" my daughter interrupts.

Shit.

She's right, of course, and I tell her so. I've taught him it's admissible at home, why not at school? It's easier to slap J on the wrist, ignore his bad behavior to keep the peace, threaten major consequences but never follow through. Easier to believe it's just a phase.

At home, I sit with him while he searches for the words he wants to write. I ask him why he thinks he behaved that way, and after a few defensive quips and a lot of "I don't knows" he answers, "I was shy."

I, like every mother, know my son better than anyone. I am his fiercest protector. I know his snarky attitude is a cover for his insecurities and discomfort. I know he lashes out with smart quotes from his television heroes when he's feeling shy or attacked. I've discussed with him that what works for tv characters does not work in real life. Nevertheless, I know he thinks (as I did when I quoted Marcia Brady and Laurie Partridge), "if it works for them, it will work for me."

I continue to defend his sensitivity (as a child, I was labeled and repeatedly dismissed as "over-sensitive") but the incident last night has jolted me into realizing that I must find a middle ground between my hubby's military style of discipline and mine.

To do something wrong is human. All we can do is our best to make amends and learn from our mistakes. It took me 40 years to learn this, how do I get my kid to get it before I die of shame and embarrassment or he gets punched in the face?

I need a glass of wine.

S.O.S. - Shit. Oh. Shit

Yesterday, my adorable, little 7 year old boy, while relaying the particulars of his day at school, called a friend who had behaved badly, a SHITHEAD.

WTF! No, he didn't learn it from me. I can't shuck all of the blame but I do know that lately he and his friends at school have been working on "vocabulary - building". And if it wasn't bad enough hearing that word emanate from his heretofore chaste lips, today, while doing homework, he yelled at our barking dog,

"What's your fucking problem?"

I knew what he said. I knew what I heard. Nevertheless, I could not believe my Mommy-In-Denial ears.

"What did you say?" I asked giving him a chance to redeem himself.
Quickly he conjured up, "Freakin'... I said freakin'."
"Hmm, good one," I thought to myself.
To him I said, "Up to your room. That language is not acceptable!"

I don't know about you but hasn't "that is not acceptable" lost it's mo-jo? I've been using it since I enrolled in my first rip-off baby class and where has it gotten me? It's like that great book, NO DAVID! After a while, the same phrase repeated over and over just falls upon deaf ears.

So what to do? Intellectually, I know curse words are empowering. That they have a cathartic release like no others. They're sexy and they're all around us. Back in July, our family stood on an airport security line next to a man who dropped his laptop on the floor. He yelled out, "Son of a Bitch!"At first, my son was shocked into silence. But within minutes he barraged me with questions.

"Mom, did he say Son of a "B" word?"
"Mom, what does that mean exactly?"
"Mom, why did he say that and not the "F" word?"

He still talks about that moment to this day.

So, I ask again, what to do? Lock the kid up? Send him to Catholic school? (My temple might not be too thrilled.) Home school him? No, please God, no! Not that! I've heard it takes a village...but what kind of village? Is there really a village? In Los Angeles, it certainly ain't my village.

I've read this article and that article seeking help but putting money in the swear box quickly grows old and eating soap just seems so Donna Reed.

Tonight, after reading a bedtime story, my boy, as he often does, asked me to crack an egg over his head to help him fall asleep. As I danced my fingers from his wavy hair down past his arms, his giggles and sweetness brought me back to a more innocent time: the scent of Johnson and Johnson, the softness of peach fuzz, the knowing embrace of tiny, curled fingers.

I think of this and I want to help the foul-mouthed, little booger. S.O.S.

Until tomorrow...

THE HONEYMOON IS OVER

Remember when you could go out at night, party with friends, and show up to work the next day ready to roll?? For me those days are gone - that honeymoon is O-V-E-R. Last night was a cruel reminder. Since returning from winter vacation, our days had been free of temper tantrums, physical brawls, and serious injuries, so I thought I'd hang onto the illusion and have dinner with some girlfriends. Sushi and cocktails are a natural combo - like strawberries and champagne, peanut butter and chocolate, blow jobs and kleenex. One cocktail was so tasty it led to another. Later, I popped an Advil while dreams of a docile morning danced in my head. I awoke the next day, immediately hit with the realization that I was the morning classroom volunteer. Shit! I got everyone off to school, dragged my disheveled self to the classroom, breakfast bar and steaming green tea in hand. As I corrected homework, it became clear that I was in sorry shape. My brain was on brown out - straining to figure out the combined total of 1 quarter, 4 dimes and 4 pennies. (I can see you calculating...) I stared at this basic math as if attempting to solve Einstein's Theory of Relativity. Normally, I enjoy volunteering in the class for a few reasons: 1. Because children truly do say the darndest things. 2. Because I love seeing my son's shyly contented face as I enter the room and 3. Because it becomes clear to me that my kid's listening skills suck just as much as those of his peers. (Alright, a few girls are better, but they're the exception.) At an intimate ratio of 6:1, it was as if I wasn't even there. I wondered what distracting thoughts whizzed and zoomed around in their unkempt little heads. I envied them. As I failed to get their attention, I was reminded of the weary economics teacher from FERRIS BUELLER'S DAY OFF, "Anyone?...Anyone?"
Most of these kids don't know me well enough to disrespect me. At least now I know not to take my son's rejection personally. I accept these comforts no matter how oblique.



P.S. Since earlier today when I drafted this entry , we've had multiple meltdowns, flying shards of glass, but thankfully, no injuries. Like I said, O-V-E-R.

FAKE IT 'TIL YOU MAKE IT

This is the inspiration for my latest parenting experiment. I don't know about you, but my kids physically and verbally abuse each other EVERY DAY. So I've instituted a new rule: Any time someone commits domestic misconduct of this nature, the offender must repent with a kiss. The number of kisses is in direct proportion to the number of offenses, so if the sibling resists the ante is upped accordingly.


It's working, kind of, I'm still giving it time to develop. But it has definitely made life more pleasant. I've made no headway imposing the traditional punishment of separations and time-outs. Listening to them recount how the other said something mean, pinched them in the arm, or stole a spot on the couch, often resulted in nothing more than me screaming my head off and reaching for a glass of wine. Lately, though, the tenor of these incidents has completely transformed. They know what's coming as soon as they commit the crime and before you know it we're all piled on one another in one jiggly, giggly blob. It morphs an unpleasant parenting moment into a revitalizing one.

I'm no expert, not even close, so please accept my experience with the little merit it deserves. But my kids are old enough, 11 and 7, to know what's right and wrong and to keep repeating the mantras, "Keep your hands to yourself," and "If you don't have anything nice to say, say nothing at all," just seems ineffective, not to mention, mind-numbingly frustrating.

So if they're like most siblings and won't show the love until they're grown, far away from mommy's scrutinizing stares, then I say, "fake it, 'til you make it" is good enough for me!