Richie is sick... but it's the first time in a long time

Recently I have been thinking back on that year of hell Sean and I survived between Richie being born and Richie being 1. It was hard, in a way that we probably only realise in looking back on it. At the time, people would try to empathise, and try to get us to say how hard it was, and we wouldn't be able to because we were right in the middle of things being so hard it was impossible to also reflect on it.

Richie is now 2 and three quarters and he hasn't been proper, proper sick the way hi was in the first year of his life for a long time. He's had the odd antibiotic, and two sets of grommets, but none of that hospital-acquired drug-resistant infection he used to have, no urine infections, he hasn't looked seriously, seriously miff for over a year now.

But today, in the words of our GP, the little guy "looks miff". I finally dragged him to the doc because he hasn't eaten in four days (okay, maybe he's finished one muffin and one packet of crisps in that time).. He is feverish, and now has a roseola-like rash, and he's definitely got a virus. And the thing with viruses, you let them run their course. You treat them symptomatically. This is how I behave, being well trained obedient wife of doctor.

But after four days, when the snot's turning brown and the kid is struggling, you go to the GP, muttering about: "He's probably about to turn. I've got this virus too, now, and I can see it's really sore in the throat. I'm really just here to see if we are giving the right remedies."

And the GP finds a massive ear infection in the ear that has JUST had a grommet inserted for goodness' sakes. How? And he says Richie needs antibiotics for that infection at least.

Poor little grumpy baby.

My own parents were famous for leaving us to be sick for aaaaaaages before taking us to the doc. More than once, the doc crapped on them. Maybe we were particularly stoic children. Richie certainly is. He manged to inform me about the sore throat (and even I could feel the lumps in his glands) - a clue was when he didn't want his chocolate - chocolate! - because "It's burning me". That, in fact, was probably the time to call the doctor.

But he never said a word about the ear.

Poor little thing.

Richie is not exactly long-suffering when it comes to making his unhappiness known about any other circumstance in his life. At. All. So it breaks me a little bit that he always takes physical discomfort as a given.

The latest set of new splints

Richie got a new set of splints in February and promptly broke them by April. As the first set with ankle joints that allowed his feet to move a bit, they were much beloved of Richie. He used to shout if anyone tried to take them off. He also experimented with this knee-bent squat-bounce type move that would make any personal trainer proud. I also think that move is what snapped his splint joints right off.

"You can never take an independence aid away from a child," said Richie's physio, and she was right. Ah, but it is depressing when you watch your child suffer. Imagine, then, how depressed Richie was, not having his splints working properly and not understanding why.

Richie is the first of my children to get a note sent back from school. The staff were worried about him. He didn't talk to him anymore, his responses were a whisper. He stopped playing with his friends.

At home, for three and a half weeks, Richie raged against me in a way that I don't even want to talk about.

My mother, who is a qualified (ex-)psychologist, said to me, childhood depression includes withdrawal and aggression.

Waiting for these latest set of splints to be made was a long and hard wait for all of us - and at least I knew the new ones were coming! We kept telling Richie his splints were getting fixed but who knows how much he grasped.

Last week, he got the splints. Four days of school later, the next note came home. "Richie has come out of the dark place, he's back to normal,"" it read.

At home, we enjoyed our first few days of relative calm and happiness (as much calm and happiness that exists in a home where two boys fight with each other every second minute. This is not an exaggeration.) in a long time. I have no doubt Richie was depressed for a month.

It is wonderful to have Richie "back". His vocabulary is suddenly expanding in a boost-like way as well, as he feels better. I notice him ordering us around more specifically: "Daddy, come with me, you and Felix stay here Mommy," and other little speech quirks and patterns. "I'm feeling a little bit not so well," he'll say. Last night, Felix and Richie turned the pre-bath minutes, which are usually the sucker of Mom and Dad's last reserves of energy on a Sunday evening, into a complete jol when they got excited about lighting a fire in the fireplace. Richie raced onto the patio where the wheelbarrow full of wood stands and back, heaving logs, for 40 minutes, in that completely committed, intense way of childhood, full of focus and enjoyment, running commentary all the way. It was lovely to see him use his legs and speed about. Felix told us all how big he was and lit the fire, because only he was allowed to, because "I'm a careful guy." Truer words...

And at the same time the darkness hovers, because I am feeling sad for my little guy, whose joie de vivre can be affected by something that comes so easily to everyone else: the simple ability to get around.

Often, Sean and I remark on being in the middle. Richie's disability is not everything: he has an intact brain, senses, laughter, a good life. But it is not nothing either. His life is quite different from his peers'. He can't walk so well. He can't run. Continence remains a question mark. And wherever he goes, he is placed under the gaze of others and scrutinised, marked as different.

It is not nothing either.
 

If you were me, would you force Felix to go to karate?

I wrote this post for Ackermans on whether I should force Felix to go to karate lessons.

On the one hand Darren, in our day our parents A) probably would never have instigated an "extramural" without us asking to join one first, but on the other hand B) if we wanted to go they probably wouldn't have let us quit.

But Felix is only 4, and hasn't actually asked to jion a class - that would be his overinvolved parents, stressing about how to give their little kind child a few assertiveness tools.

You can read the whole post here.

Advice or personal accounts would be much appreciated!

I haven't kept my blog up to date in terms of what I've been writing for the Ackermans guys, so in the interests of housekeeping, a few back posts here.

On Richie and refusing to "Use His Words!"

And this "I win at life" post about how Richie FINALLY conquers the last sleep obstacle...

There's this musing about what traits our children's generation, the children of Generation X, will share...

And the one about the grommets prep/pep talk and whether we overbaby our children when it comes to managing scarey experiences for them...

We have an edible garden. We are terminally cool.

If you turned to p112 of the 15 May issue of Grazia magazine (their first birthday issue), you’d see an article on “rurbanites” – hipsters who build trendy vegetable gardens in their back yards, raised ones, in on-trend pallet boxes, if space is a problem, or rambling ones, definitely using organic soil and compost and manure, shoo, between an orchard of nut and fruit trees. (I’ve been working at Grazia a bit on a freelance gig, and so I got to see the latest issue, which I think is looking great).

Onse eie Emmarentia-based thought leaders are doing what Brits do in allotments 2 km from home, right here in their own back yards! Move over, Gwyneth Paltrow! Other people can be as spotlessly right-on as you.

And I, too, am tragically trendy and I didn’t even know! (Except, I suppose, via the sort of zeitgeist osmosis that must take place to allow people to suddenly take up knitting en masse and imagine that it’s because they really wanted to....)

But wait, I’m getting ahead of myself. For months, I have been picking up stompies on Twitter, specifically @pinkhairgirl chatting about growing your own vegetables.

Then I read Belinda’s blog post about her vegetable garden on her brilliant blog here, and she mentioned that she had a friend who was starting a vegetable garden business. I was hooked – I read through her blog post and was shouting YES! at the screen at every sentence.

Sean is as tempted by the idea of a food garden. As he has a penchant for military history, he informed me that “Victory Gardens” helped alleviate food shortages during the two World Wars. He loves the sense of autonomy and self-sufficiency. So we were going for it.

This is to be a family affair – Felix and Richie “found” a tomato plant that sprang up by our lavender bushes and now water the plant daily with their water guns and wait impatiently for the green tomatoes to go red. Sometimes they can’t wait and so we have a row of green baby tomatoes lying on our lounge window sill waiting to ripen. Some do, some don’t. Those that show even a glimmer of pink are greeted with immense excitement by both boys, who pick them (and usually the ones next to the red ones too, thus filling up our window sill again). Felix pops his reddish tomato straight in his mouth but Richie is maintaining his lifelong tomato embargo.  

Why should children go hungry in South Africa (why should they anyway? Because rich people want Mercedes and will take it from their starving mouths, that’s why), but honestly, why should children not be fed when every school, road island, and back garden can be used to plant and grow food? There’s no excuse even if you live in the CBD – abandoned industrial spaces can grow food. Even Michelle Obama planted a food garden on the White House lawns. This is a thing, people.

So I contacted Belinda, and she gave me Philippa Bramwell-Jones’ number, and I suck at photos but lemme just tell you, Philippa came into our garden like an Energiser bunny, dividing up beds and treating them with the correct composts, letting them lie for a week, and then planning, planting, planting, a whole range of edibles.

I will have broccoli, cauliflour, cabbage, spinach, potatoes, beetroot, artichokes, beans, so many herbs I can’t even list them all... I am super excited. I don’t know if I will be able to sustain it, but Queenie will have to get co-educated and involved as will our gardener, Thembi in spite of his rather chequered history with us (link). I have anti-green fingers but I am hoping that even I will be able to grow something. Under instruction.

If you would like to contact Philippa at How Splendid, call her on 079 092 0578 or pbramwelljones@googlemail.com. She’s good, clever, fun, knowledgeable, energetic and very reasonable.

PS I may be channelling my inner hipster but don’t worry neighbours, despite the fact that Grazia says keeping chickens in urban gardens is the Next Big Thing I just remember the kapokhoenders in the jaarts in Westdene in the 1980s and believe me, we was not cool. Noisy, dirty things that lay funny-looking eggs. I’m going to need a lot of convincing before I enjoy chicken manure for my veggies!

 

Weighing in on Mother's Day

Mother’s Day leaves me cold. It’s a manufactured day and I don’t fancy being dictated to, or my family being dictated to, about when I am to be appreciated. Sean is welcome to forget every Mother’s Day in perpetuity; I am not his mom. (He might want to remember it for his own mother...) (Also, he appreciates me plenty.)

I’ll take one unexpected “I love you Mommy” out of the blue from Felix over any parroting on The Day. (The other day I fetched him from school and he greeted me with: “THANK you, Mommy, for buying me this shirt!” WTF meets heart-melt moment.)

Richie, our rebel, certainly isn’t going to let convention dictate when he may or may not hate my guts. At the moment, he is choosing to hate my guts every single day, from the minute he opens his eyes and shouts at me not to dress him to the minute he argues about going to bed at night. I won’t lie, it’s depressing and disheartening. It makes me feel like shit. So from that point of view, fuck Mother’s Day.

My mom is not a wildly sentimental sort. She is strong and tenacious and hard-working and determined and committed and clever, and she’s about as far removed from stereotypes about misty-eyed haai siestog Afrikaans tannies that you can get. Sy vat nie kak nie. (She, too, is bewildered by what is required from Mother’s Day.)

My mom is vivacious and energetic and successful in her career and a list about her would not be complete without mention of how everyone always, always tells me how gorgeous and well dressed and young (well she is only 21 years older than me! That age difference is getting smaller and smaller!) my mom is. (I have always had to get over being the less glamorous duckling. No, seriously, my mom “gets” clothes and makeup and style in a way that I don’t. It’s okay. We can’t all have everything.) She is particularly passionate about her grandkids and she has been a source of support from the day Felix was born. She is an absolute staatmaker, fetching kids from school or coming round for bike rides and stories and luring pigeons out of hiding.

I think for any parent who has lost a child, the forced participation in fake mass sentiment is harder. (Like Valentine’s Day for the recently broken up, etc.)

My brother died almost 25 years ago now. Now that I am a parent I can understand that you don’t really feel like going on living when that has happened. I think of my uncle and nephew who are at the beginning of that very long road of grief.

My mother told me recently how depressed she was in those early years after the tragedy. How she set herself survival goals – she had to cope until I finished school, then she felt she had to see me through university, and then somehow it turned out I still needed her after that, through heartbreaks and the delayed growing up that only seems to happen in our late twenties, in our late-onset adolescence generation. And then she saw me find love and get married and have children, and, well. Here we are. 24 years on, with two new grandsons to love, we have all survived.

The truism is that you are more likely to forgive or appreciate or understand your own parents once you become one. And while my mom was telling me that stuff, I knew exactly what she meant. I would instinctively do exactly the same for my sons.

But – and forgive me, I’m a bit slow with this stuff – a good while later I realised she was also saying: *I* was important enough for her to persevere through the dark night of the soul.

My survival guilt probably often made me think my parents’ grief, being so overwhelming, could not possibly have been as great for me. “If I had died instead if would have been better” is a feeling many left-behind siblings have, on top of our own personal loss of that person who was our teammate against the parents, and our adversary at all other times.

But, like I would do for Felix or Richie, I realised my mom persevered for me in the same situation. Ek is oek important, as the poem goes.

Thank you for sticking around for me.

One thing that helps bind you to your partner is your children, because you are the only two people in the world who can possibly love your obnoxious brats so totally and equally. So you think, and then you look at your own parents, the joy they get from their grandkids, the hard work they do helping to raise them(!), the way those kids keep them young and proud. Then you sommer love your parents extra for getting it.

So, happy Mother’s Day after all, Ma.

Are the hijacking precautions actually good advice?

"Oh Sean," I said to my husband in a conversation South Africans have from time to time, when we contemplate whether we can ever allow our children to obtain driving licences in a place where drunk driving is so rife and unpoliced; or we contemplate whether we can justify not having taken our children away somewhere safer, far away to Australia, when the threat of home invasions, senseless murders and hijackings "gone wrong" (err... it went wrong the moment you decided to hijack someone, dude...) loom large.

"Oh Sean," I said, "I read one of those internet parenting portal articles today about 'hijacking tips', and they said that we are shortsighted to use kiddie locks on our cars, because what if you get hijacked and what if the hijacker doesn't want to allow you time to get your kids out of the car, and what if you shout at your kids to get out and they try but then they can't open the door? And I had never thought of it like that, and we must immediately switch the kid locks off our car doors."

Sean is one of the most safety-conscious men I know. I thought I was on safe ground here. Sean puts Velcro strips on neck-tying clothes so that kids can't choke themselves if they should decide to jump off the couch while wearing a cape and it catches on something. He is Mr Worry to my Little Miss Naughty, a book that I enjoy reading to my children because it always makes me think of him fondly.

"Grngnghngh!" spluttered my incensed husband. "And what if that same kid, now kiddie-lock-less, throws a tantrum and decides to open the car door and fling himself out of it while you are on the highway?"

"Er. I hadn't thought of that," I had to admit.

Bear with us. Imagining worst-case scenarios is a darkly funny South African hobby.

Sean was angry at the panic-mongering and the random strewing of advice upon the Interwebs when, as he correctly argued, where is the research? Where is the study that has been done of 5000 hijacking victims, collating their experiences, finding out how many children were driven off with or injured or kidnapped or allowed to escape or be taken from the car by their parents before the vehicle was relinquished to the thieves?

He's absolutely right. Where is the study? Why is there no study, in a country as beset by violence as ours? Would such a study be unPC (because we should be focusing on crime prevention, not coping with crime)? And in the absence of data, who is allowing themselves to opine and give readers potentially dangerous, certainly untested advice, which worried parents follow willy-nilly because we spend 99.5% of our time feeling helpless so the 0.5% of pro-activity is welcomed? And why do they not do so more responsibly?

I have been smash-and-grabbed in the CBD and we have had a home invasion in which we were tied up and hit before robbers made off with our stuff. But I have never been hijacked. It's part of the reason I drive a 16-year-old car. I know that the scenario plays in my head often: stop, gun to my head suddenly, I reach back, grab my children while saying, "You can have the car, let me get the children out." In my horror-fantasy, it's not up for debate, and my hope is that the fact I'm not asking for permission stops the hijacker and forces him to wait until we are all out of the car.

In reality, that's a lot of violence for a car with a street value of R15 000 or less. Which is what I hope to convince myself of every day.

I'd love to hear. What would you do?

What was I saying again?

Short term memory loss is no joke, kids. I've been busy as hell (oh, you've noticed? The silence?) Well, yes. Lucky me. Freelance jobs pouring in. I should be working right now but I have to take a tiny bit of me time and process first.

So two Thursdays ago, I go to physio with Richie - who had been pretty unco-operative there for a few weeks, so we have been chatting in the car and I said to him, "Are you looking forward to going to physio?"
"Yes," says he. "IIII won't shout at Kath. I will be HAPpy." (I love how two-year-olds accentuate one word in a sentence.)
So cute, and he was true to his word.
Anyhow, at physio Kath tells me she will be away next week, should we cancel physio? I say, that suits me perfectly, as I have taken on an office gig for most of that week, so that really makes my life easier.

The next week, I arrived at physio, sat and waited, and eventually reluctanly SMSed Kath, as I knew I should have been able to remember something, but what? What was it?
She SMSed back - cancel, suits you, at work all this week, remember?
I completely DID remember, vaguely, after she told me.

What the hell? Is it because I am middle-aged? (Okay, approaching 40...)

I never used to have to keep a diary, I simply stored information in my brain and lived my week accordingly. Now if I don't put it in Google Calendar, it doesn't happen.

And yeah, yeah, maybe it is because I'm now running three (make that four) people's diaries instead of one. BUT STILL!

Other than that, there has been so little to report that it explains the silence. How lucky is that? I am happy, we are settled and chilled. Felix is his true self - gentler and kinder - again, Richie is sweet and laughs uproariously.

Although I am writing this in the post-adrenaline fatigue of having just come out of hospital with the two boys, both of whom had grommets inserted: Felix's third set, Richie's second. I do feel bad that a doctor recommended this for Felix a good few weeks/months ago and we ignored it. After a massive ear infection for Felix (I thought he was going to have a seizure in the waiting room he was so hot) last week the doc said both boys' ears are in a bad state and we need to do something. (In Felix's case this qualified as a second opinion so we agreed and booked them in.)

It went as fine as it can when everyone at the hospital knows you ("this is Sean's child!") and Grandpa comes along to hold one frightened boy while the other one is in the waiting room, theatre or recovery. Last time Felix woke up badly and ripped his drip out, so I was concerned about him but in fact it was Richie who went in first and came out worse. He was choking and spluttering and sobbing for quite a long time afterwards.

Because I am Mevrou Dokter I am allowed to hover just outside the theatre and then see the kids as they get to recovery, a fact which I've always been glad for as the thought of the little guy waking up without Mama there bothered me. But I am ready to change my mind about that. The kids are so disorientated at first anyway they really won't remember those few minutes. And you really just get in the way of the anaesthetist who has to make sure everything is ok.

I found myself in the situation where I was holding a scared and crying Felix as Richie got to recovery, shouting and screaming, but I couldn't realistically go to him without freaking Felix out, nor could I leave Felix, and Grandpa was hovering outside the theatre doors with the other parents, realy to be let in when he was allowed. So, I'm sorry Richie, but I'm afraid I made the decision to stay where I was and listen to you cry, and as soon as I did that I felt calm. Like one of those moments where you don't particularly like the choices presented to you, but you just rest in what you end up deciding.

Richie was okay. He is such a stoic little champ. And Felix looks relieved, and happy, and quite proud of himself for having survived the ordeal.

Me, I could lie down and sleep for the afternoon. I'm shattered (I did have a stomach bug yesterday, probably still recovering).

Must. Work.
zzzzz
 

Where do you go to, my lovely Felix boy?

Does anyone else who has a four-year-old feel like they are ceding them?

I am feeling that almost every day with Felix.

When Richie was born I obviously had that guilt that lots of parents feel about having this brand-new newborn who demands way more than half their parenting energy, and Sean and I worked HARD to reassure Felix and spend loads of time with him by himself and all that. Things that Richie never even got to take for granted in the first place, being the second-born.

And then when Richie was one-ish and Felix three-ish it felt the other way around again - Felix being clingy like a three-year-old can be and Richie either being too deathly sick for that year after his operation to do anything, or otherwise being happy to toddle off an do and explore things on his own. Three was probably Felix's most anxious time yet.

And it's completely wonderful to see Felix's anxieties lessen. He watched with astonishment an episode of Zou on the TV the other day. Zou was to go up in a hot air balloon with his grandpa but then was scared, and later overcame his fears and was brave and went up.

Well, Felix was spellbound. Amazed. Thrilled. Later, he told me the whole story again, and together we remembered some things he used to be scared of but isn't anymore.

"Remember you used to be scared of parties?"
"Oh JAAAAAA!"
"And now?"
"And now I like them."

Felix remembered he was nervous of the jungle gym and the fireman's pole, both of which he's recently mastered. I love that he has that ability to self-reflect now.

But with Richie having hit Challenging Twos, bout #2, I can't help feeling like Felix is retreating a bit. Oh, we have plenty of good moments, where he chats happily to me about what happened at school, and shows me how toys work, and demonstrates new skills. But somehow... still. He's just so self-contained. So big. Maybe it's just that he used to be attached to my hip for years and years, and now he's not. Now, when Felix has a friend come over, the two older boys regularly disappear into a chasing game or onto the trampoline, and I'm left playing playdough with Richie on the patio. And the more of a tantrum Richie throws, the more he screams and doesn't want to play together or share, the more Felix retreats. I can almost see him thinking, sometimes, "Ah screw it, this isn't worth it." And he goes off to pursue something by himself.

I can't blame Felix but it does mean he's getting less of me. Or so it feels.

I guess I need to focus on getting some time where it's only Felix and me. Because right now Richie is ensuring there's plenty of him-time.

Or is this simply the beginning of that inevitable process of watching your child walk away? That sounds a bit dramatic. Okay, maybe more that process where there's a bit of walk away, then a bit of come back, then walk away again. And come back in a slightly different way.

That's probably it. I am learning a new way to talk to a new boy, who is big and rational, who asks how old everyone in the family is, and enjoys teaching Richie things, and shares with him unreservedly, and believes me implicitly when I tell him about germs on his bum and how he has to wash his hands after touching them.

It's the best thing ever, watching your children grow up. And it keeps you on your toes the whole time.

Sign language

Yeah yeah yeah, I had a little rant. I'm feeling much better now and I promise I'm not going to feel immobilised by guilt and self-flagellation over that "honest" post. I did imagine my boys reading that last post one day and I realised they would be fine. They are loved. Their mother is a weirdo who talks her way through experiences. It's okay.

So, on to happier things.

Something I have been berating myself for is not teaching my sons Afrikaans (my first language) (not the language I think in anymore though) (leaving that job to Ouma) and trying to outsource the Xhosa immersion/acquisition to Queenie (with not much enthusiasm from her for the project) and feeling occasional twinges of doubt over not sending my sons to the German School where they could learn German (my second language) (another language they are not learning from me).

Meanwhile, my dear son Felix has been quietly learning another language so surreptitiously we have hardly even noticed.

Sign language. Felix's class is learning to sign at school. They are on F. I know learning the alphabet is different to learning immersion-wise but it's a great start anyway. Just by knowing the letters Felix will be able to communicate, however slowly and haltingly, with a deaf person.

Felix is delighted and will do the signs to me at the slightest provocation. He loves the mental stimulation as well as the different sensory route towards associating a letter (with a hand sign instead of a shape on paper).

He really is delighted.

He is also being assessed for his lisp by the speech therapist attached to his school. Ah man. I will miss that lisp. I know we're still got time and at just over 4 a lisp isn't really a problem yet, but it just seems so convenient, now, at school and before big school stress starts, for him to have the assessments. It's not a definite commitment to speech therapy yet. Just an assessment, just an athethment...

Felix has an ear infection and is not feeling wonderful. But he is really shooting up so very very fast right now. I have had to start looking at old photos to remind me what he looked like at 1 and 2 and 3... All anyone ever talks about is what schools Felix and his friends will be going to next year. Big School. (Choke.) (Only Grade 0.)

I think I want it all to slow down.

Hey, we also discovered the joys of Mushroom Park in Sandton a week or two ago. It has a bike track, perfect for Felix right now, a sandpit and about eight jungle gyms. It's a goodie for parents like me who are still grieving the closure of Inanda Club...

That's my helpful hint for the day.

 

TREAT 'EM MEAN, KEEP 'EM KEEN

FILTHY-MOUTHED VENT BELOW

I have been playing children's games in all my free time for over four years now and frankly I am fucking bored of it.

I have given up my nights and my days. I have forgotten needs I once used to have because not meeting them has become such second nature. I live totally completely differently nowadays. And most days I am okay with that because of the overwhelming love and joy my children bring to me and they are worth everything and anything and I would happily die for them in a second blah blah violins but TWO DAYS AGO WAS NOT THAT DAY.

Little fuckers.

This is how it goes. I literally while my kids are awake and I am not at work never ever do something like read or watch TV or cut my fucking toenails FFS because I am ALWAYS busy with my kids. If I am not busy bonding with or talking to or playing with my kids I am busy feeling bad for not doing so. I need to let them go off to play by themselves, I know, and they do it so seldom. That's because they've never had to. I know. I KNOW!

When I am preparing food or on the phone Felix's almost default these past few days is to run to that damn TV and switch it on and swith off to us. It's his by-himself thing and I'm not sure it's good for him. Look, he's going to be reading soon (both boys are showing a huge interest in books again suddenly, and Felix is at that stage where he memorises the story and "reads" it to me) so I can only hope it will replace some of the TV time because essentially Felix is a person who needs quiet reflective alone time and he's not mad about arranging cars in lines or playdates or playdough or sandpits. And we used to use swimming as chill time but it's suddenly Autumn.

Felix is going through this thing where he's angry almost all the time but unable to really express it or deal with it. So he says the most horrendous things to me, trying his very very best to hurt me in the best way he knows how. This is not, however, during times where he's so angry he's lost control. It's like a teenage sulk. It more seems to be like an experiment with people's feelings, like, let me test what's allowed. And I tell him mothers have feelings too and please not to say this and I try to talk about what is making him angry - and at that point he generally runs away from me and goes to hide somewhere. He refuses to interact further about what I am saying so it makes it very hard to move out of this ugly pattern.

I can't really blame him because for the past 48 hours every single goddamn fucking blistering arsewiping time I have lured him away from the TV and tried to play ball or race bikes or jump trampoline with them the peace has lasted all of five seconds before Richie has done this hideous eardrum-piercing shriek he does now (even though he knows full well how to talk, and when I am calm and say, Richie, please ask me nicely, or Richie, you didn't like that game, he can man right the fuck up and use a human voice - without whine attached - and communicate civilly! Amazing! He can actually do it! But how much more fun to shriek and bite your brother and deflect all the attention off Felix and freak him all the way out.

Sometimes I just get sick of giving and giving and giving and it's never enough and then precisely because you give a lot, what's your reward? Spoilt brat fucking nasty-ass ungrateful children. You spend your life doing stuff you'd honestly really probably rather not be doing (how many times can you re-enact the fucking Cars movie on a JD Bug and a plastic motorcycle? I ask you with tears in my eyes.) Honestly, it makes me want to open the wine and go away to read a book and leave the little shits to their own fights and TV and supper. Which is exactly what I did, two days ago. Amazingly, they survived. They also amazingly behaved a whole lot better the next day. Felix even told me, "Mom, it's a happy day today."

I know you are supposed to love and understand and empathise the shit out of your children, but really sometimes, you do what every teenage boy has done to you at least once in your life:

TREAT 'EM MEAN, KEEP 'EM KEEN.

Because it fucking works. And you're fucking worth it.


P.S.

Other people feel this way too! Amazing!
Read this:
http://crappypictures.com/parenting-i-quit./
and this:
http://myorbit365.wordpress.com/2013/03/11/note-to-self-play-for-fun-already/
and this: http://tamrynj.wordpress.com/2012/11/08/unconditional-play/
It's great to read Julia's post about playing with children because I honestly had no idea that not only Tamryn and Julia but loads and loads of other parents struggled with playing with their children.