I really, really want to write about how my son is losing his mind. How he keeps it together, for the most part, all day at school and then comes home and just melts down into a blubbering, angry mess of a five year old. I want to tell you all about how it feels like he's hit, kicked, punched, and bit me more in the last two nights than he has in his entire life. I want to be able to explain the ridiculousness of trying to buckle him into his carseat while he's slapping at me like the blades of a fan, all the time grinning at me like it's a big game. It was so ridiculous, in fact, that I almost started laughing at one point. That is until he pinched my arm for the fifty thousandth time and I grabbed his face and I scolded that kid like I have never scolded him before.
And then AND THEN he asked for candy. CANDY.
"NOYOUDONOTGETCANDY!" And then I took a deep breath and sternly explained it again. Hitting = bad choices. Bad choices = no candy, no movies.
We sat in silence until, "Mommy?"
"You're right. No hit. Are you ready to use gentle touches?"
"Hands are for high-fives. Hands are for shaking. Hands are for waving 'hi.' Hands are not for hitting. No hitting."
"No, Punkin. You hit Mommy. No TV. We're going to take a bath. We have to get the strawberries out of your hair."
"Yep. Punkin, when the strawberries are all gone at school, you just say, 'okay.' No put plate on head. No rub hands on shirt. That makes a mess. When food is all gone, you say, 'okay.'"
"Ya, strawberry juice is messy."