My oldest son has a flare for the dramatic. He gets it from me (and a bit from his father) but I think his propensity to show it off began at a much earlier age than mine did. Or maybe I’m painting pretty pictures of my childhood and wearing my rose colored looking-into-the-past glasses.
When he was in Kindergarten we received a telephone call from the school that he had fallen on the playground, was in hysterics and may have broken his arm. Both Chris and I left our respective places of work and rushed to pick him up. His arm didn’t look anything like broken to me. But off we went to the doctor’s office just to be sure.
He continued to cry the whole way there, which was only a matter of blocks from his school, but started to calm down after arriving still holding fast to his “broken” arm. After the nurse checked us into the room to wait for the doctor, we were sitting there all together. He was on my lap and his brother on Chris’ lap next to us. Liam tried to touch him, or come near him somehow and out of nowhere, like a frog’s tongue catching a passing fly, the “broken” arm shot out and swatted his brother’s arm away.
He looked up at me with a sly grin on his face and met my look of confusion-slightly-tinged-with-anger. We had both left work. I had driven across town. Sick children were no doubt waiting in the lobby to see the doctor. This was not okay. The doctor came in and checked the arm. We all had a serious talk about not faking injuries, the whole crying wolf talk if you will.
Fast forward to present day. I drive across town to pick up the boys from my dad’s house so that I can then drive them back across town to get Ciaran to soccer practice on time. I beat them back from the pool and when they arrive I am greeted with the following statement from said 9 year old:
Ciaran: “Mom, before you say anything, I banged my foot on the stairs of the slide at the pool and I’m pretty sure it’s sprained and I don’t think I should go to soccer practice.”
Me: “Oh really.”
This conversation is followed by some dramatic limping until I tell them that we don’t have to leave for about 45 minutes. He then proceeds to make quick haste to the basement to log on to the computer. A few minutes later he comes up the stairs and when he gets within earshot starts making moaning in pain noises. I watch him carefully from the corner of my eye. No limping.
Right before we leave he gets on the trampoline to practice a few more back flips. I look up and see him jump off the tramp and fling himself behind a bush. I listen closely and start to hear the crying. I don’t immediately jump up to go to his rescue, but Grandma does. He has apparently landed on his hand and can’t stand up.
I walk up and tell him that if he landed on his hand he can stand up and to walk down to the house. Grandma is already taking care of getting the ice pack and good thing, because that thought never even crossed my mind. In the kitchen I stand there looking at him while he cries and his grandmother comforts him.
That’s when it hits me.
I spent an hour of this very afternoon reading the book I got yesterday called The Truth About Children and Divorce. I remember telling more than one person how Ciaran is quicker to become emotional since we told them about the separation. I remember saying he needs extra comforting. I remember saying how I was trying to be more cognizant of this and I stood there and did not try to comfort him at all when he was crying out for it.
(If this was Twitter I would insert the big #motherhoodFAIL here.)
As we drove home (not to soccer practice because his cleats weren’t in the pile of cleats I brought with me) I reflected on so many things. On how when the boys were babies we made a conscientious effort not to be the parents that dove to pick them up every time they fell down. How Ciaran has a history of faking injuries, wrapping tiny scratches up in gigantic ace bandages, and putting bandaids on sore parts of his body. On a thousand other things and all the inadequacies I feel as a mother and as a human right now.
I know this is all attention getting activity. I know he is asking in his own way for a little extra TLC. And I realize that I have once again, and in a time of great upheaval in his life, failed to respond appropriately. Even after I sat for an hour this afternoon and read how now more than ever he needs me to be on hyper alert.
So when we got home I picked up his growing and lanky 9 year old self and I carried him out to the patio. I snuggled him on my lap and rocked him. Just him and I. And he laid his head on my shoulder and draped his legs over the side of the chair and he let me rock him and pat his back and touch his hair.
And I felt like maybe, this time, it was better late than never. And I told myself that next time, I wouldn’t wait because at some point, it might be too late.
Wow wow wow. How this post rings out to me. I watched as very close family friends went through divorce and the toll it took on their oldest child (a son). And, well, if only those parents were as in tune with their children as you are with yours. You may think you hear your son too late. I’d argue you’re hearing him just in time. Your closing remarks about taking him outside and snuggling with him… tears in my eyes. You’re doing alright.
If there’s anyone who knows how to listen to your kids, it’s you. You are listening at just the right time.
You, m’lady, are doing a fantastic job. And I send the biggest hugs ever to you right now.
I truly believe what a friend once told me…it is the best kind of mother that questions the job she is doing. You are looking at it, you’re reading books, your snuggling your big boy, you are doing the very best with what you have. You’re not failing. Some moms really don’t think that hard about it, they’re just too caught up in their own stuff. You’re a really good mom. I know we just met and then “met,” but I know that’s true already.
I hate it when I type fast and use the wrong your. #grammarfail
Oh, honey. You have not failed. You understand his need and you meet it. I have a drama queen on my hand. She refused to use her left arm for three days. I really thought it was hurt. I took her to the doctor and wouldn’t you know it, she reached out for that green lollipop the nurse tempted her with.
This whole week I’ve been dressing, showering and generally running round after L after she broke her arm last Saturday. It was just something that kicked in. I’d been used to her being her, being independent, coping, just generally doing all that stuff for herself. But it felt good, and right, to mother her like this right now.
A hug was exactly what he needed.
x
If you don’t question your parenting skills every now and then you are doing something wrong.
We are all imperfect. My father still scolds himself for imagined parenting failures, and while there were a few actual Fail moments, my sister and I both grew up into reasonable adults. Depending on your definition of reasonable.
If you didn’t occasionally make a mistake, you wouldn’t be human. And then you would be creepy to spend time with. That being said… I don’t think you made a mistake here. A mistake would have been NOT seeing the signs. A mistake would be to make too much of this lesson.
There will likely be times when you’ll overcompensate. You’ll yell at them, and you’ll spoil them. I don’t know you well, but I know that you are thoughtful. As in, you truly give things thought. And your boys are lucky to have parents who care so much about them. You are already a successful parent.
I have been so out of touch… just began reading about your separation… i feel for you with your son looking for attention and you feeling that you have not responded quickly enough. my daughter, mary, is 7 and more and more she craves my attention ESPECIALLY when she can see that i am otherwise occupied (like being on the phone with a friend, having some downtime with facebook or watching a favorite TV show or cooking dinner, etc…). i find it extremely annoying and then i feel guilty for not paying attention as i know one day she will be all grown up and will not crave this attention from me…
I think it’s wonderful that you realize you need to take more time with him.
I remember a boy in my class and how much he acted out when his parents were getting a divorce. How I wished I could comfort him in some way. He didn’t have someone to gather him in their arms and hug him.
Your son is fortunate that he does have you to notice and take some time.
I am also mama to a male drama queen (and married to one, but that’s another story) and I constantly struggle with how to manage the many, many “Woe is me! The sky is falling!” moments. Like you, I tend towards the “everything’s fine unless I can see the blood” school of reaction. A wise woman (shrink, and mom to 3) told me that what matters more than the trauma itself is how the trauma is handled. In this case, the trauma _isn’t_ the foot or the hand, but your concern about your own reaction (and the larger trauma of the changes going on in your family) and it seems to me that you are handling all of that with so much love and grace. In the moment, Grandma tended to his physical pain,and you addressed the psychic pain later, when he was out of the drama phase and just ready to be loved. As the other commenter wrote above–you seem really in tune. Try to remember what a great gift it is to our kids just to have their emotions acknowledged, and to give them the knowledge that they are deeply loved. If we do that, we can screw up sometimes on the smaller stuff, and they’ll still be just fine. [[hugs]]