Driving home, watching him in my rear view mirror I try and dig for details. Did you go to the gym today? Did you play outside? He mostly grunts at me, the Binky going straight from his backpack to his mouth the minute he hits the car seat. I point out a Mini-Cooper, knowing he can't contain his excitement every time we pass one. It's red! He shouts. A minute passes. I hear some words I half understand. What was that? I ask. I made some bad choices today, he mumbles. You did? What kind? I reach back not wanting to take my eyes off the snowy road and try and touch his knee, pleased that he is volunteering this information, unsolicited. He kicks me away. I don't want to talk to you now, his answer. Oh. When you are ready I'd like to hear about it. Another minute passes. I'll tell you when we get home.
But he doesn't. Home becomes a pit of whining, demands, refusals and wails of mama I want or mama get me every ten seconds. He falls apart at not getting his shoes off fast enough. He clings to me when I try and leave his bedroom after he is read to, tucked in, blankets just so. He wants me to lay with him. I'm trying not to because every time I do I fall asleep before him and the list of things that need to get done each night gets longer and longer. I agree to for one minute. No, ten he decides, holding up all his digits. I compromise at five. There are more questions from me; What was your favorite part of today? What are you going to dream about tonight? Then it comes out. I threw a toy at my friend today. I made a bad choice. He goes on to tell me he wanted to play and his friend wouldn't let him so he threw the toy. He had to go sit down.
I tell him it's okay to make a bad choice, everyone makes bad choices sometimes, the important thing is to try really hard to make a good choice the next time. That instead of throwing he could use his words. I tell him I'm glad he decided to talk with me. I felt like a good mom.
This morning I watched at school as he stood apprehensively, frozen in his tracks as he watched the bigger boys in the room roam the stations in a pack. He didn't know how to approach them and they didn't acknowledge him. I walked him over, coached him, say- hey can I have a truck too? He repeated it after me meekly as he neared the pile. The big boys scrambled to gather them up in their arms so there were no more scoops and dump trucks left. This is mine, I'm playing with this one, I want that one. My little man just stood there. Perplexed, I stood staring at him with the same intensity. So quick to boss everyone, this new room has rendered him speechless and in turn, I found myself drawing a blank.
Do I interject? Tell him what to do? Do nothing and direct his attention to one of many other activities? Do I give the tallest one the stink eye and take a truck out of his graspy little hands? What would a good mom do? Before I could make up my mind the pack ran away, leaving us both standing among the big blocks, a dump truck in my hand. How about you wave good bye to me, I suggested, not knowing what else to do, steering him to the big platform he climbs every day to look out the window and wave. In the hallway I signed him in and peeked my head back in the door.
The pack was roaming, he was standing alone.
