The Man of the House

As a military wife and mother of three boys, I am forever battling seemingly innocent statements that well-meaning teachers and neighbors say to my boys when my husband travels:

“You're the man of the house now.”

There is one man of our house. I'm married to him. He's 35 years old, 6 feet tall, and weighs 210 pounds. And even when the military sends him away for a few weeks, he's STILL the man of the house; and it would be really helpful if everyone would quit confusing my 9-year-old.

See, Boo has a complex. A very understandable, but nevertheless disturbing complex. He's parentified. Because his birth mother was unable to care for him or his siblings, he, as the oldest, became the adult. Now, keep in mind, he entered foster care at the age of 6, which basically means that when most children were coloring outside the lines, watching Sesame Street, and learning letters, he was fixing dinner, cleaning house, and taking care of the family.

Now, at the age of 9, he has two parents who meet the family needs, stripping him from the very identity he has known. He literally has no idea how to be a kid. This parentification manifests in a variety of ways:

• ODD: Oppositional Defiant Disorder...which stems from a pervading belief that he is EQUAL to, and often more capable than, the adults in his life. As a result, he doesn't see the need to follow the rules that adults place on him.

• A complete lack of trust, coupled with an intense feeling of indestructibility. He doesn't trust adults to keep him safe, but at the same time, he will hitch a ride with a complete stranger because he is convinced he can take care of himself.

• Intense anger toward anyone who tries to “control” him.

• Undermining parental authority where his brothers are concerned. If we tell Little Man he can't have a snack, Boo will simply get him one or share his with him. He doesn't feel the need to ask permission to give his brother a piece of candy, even if that candy has proven to be a choking hazard and we have told him not to do so.

Now, when the hubs has to travel, this parentification is magnified by those individuals who encourage him to be “the man of the house.” In his mind, this reinforces the idea that his mother (yes, that would be me) isn't in charge and doesn't have the right to tell him what to do; and if she does tell him what to do, he simply doesn't have to listen. Couple this with his anger at his “absent” father and his fears of abandonment, and you get one very aggressive little boy.

We handle these situations the best we can, and the psychologist, psychiatrist, and therapist assure us that as he feels more secure and lets go of his need to parent, this aggression will subside. But in the meantime, I would simply ask one thing of everyone who suggests that my Boo is “the man of the house” when hubs is away:

SHUT UP AND LET ME PARENT!!!!

The F--- Word

When we knew we would be adopting an older child, we joked about what it would be like the first time our child dropped the F-bomb. We knew its appearance was inevitable. I always hoped that I would handle it rather nonchalantly, primarily because I have dropped my fair share.

It happened at approximately 6:30...and then again at 6:30:27...and again at 6:30:35. And it kept happening for the next 30 minutes or so, peppered with some other fine profane specimens.

And you know what? It was cathartic. I have never been more relaxed...more focused...more in love with my son...even if he did call me a crazy f***ing white b**** who....well, you get the idea.

I won't lie either. I brought it out of him. It NEEDED to come out of him. I am no stranger to anger. I held mine in for years and it almost killed me...literally...but that's another post. So when I saw the warning signs, I knew something had to give. And sometimes, kids dealing with anger are so afraid of the result that they will stuff the emotion until it can't be controlled. And sometimes, they need a little nudge in a safe environment where they can throw caution to the wind and get it all out. That's the environment I provided...and it didn't take much.

So for 30 minutes (maybe more) I let him scream and yell and get it all out. Five months of suppressed street kid came spewing out of that cute little mouth. Five months of street kid that he had been trying to hide and deny.

And by the grace of God, I never yelled back. I just told him the truth when spit out a lie, which really just made him more angry. It went something like this...sans profanity (you're welcome):

You don't love me. Yes, I do.

You're gonna send me back. No, I'm not.

Quit lying to me. I'm not.

You're crazy. Yes, a little.

You keep saying you love me but you don't. Yes, I do.

And this went on and on, in circles. Until somehow we ended up in the bathroom, me hugging him from behind:

Get your hands off me.

I'm hugging you. I can't hug you and let go at the same time. Do you want me to let go?

No.

And when it was over, he told me he hated that he said all those things, and I told him I didn't. I told him that the 9-year-old street kid that swore at me was the real kid I fell in love with. I have always known he was in there and I'm glad he showed up. And I explained that I was surprised it took 5 months.

We shared some very poignant, Hollywood-esque moments after that. At one point, he actually wiped my tears and said, “Mama, you ARE strong enough.” I kid you not. And then we went and picked up his brothers, whom I had sent to the neighbor's house for obvious reasons, walking arm in arm, crying and laughing, across the moonlit lawn.

And then we all ate chocolate cake. Seriously. Because chocolate makes everything better.

Mother May I

I am not a morning person.

I used to work in a real coffee shop as the OPENER, which meant I had to get to the shop at 6:00am. I lived 30 minutes away. I earned the nickname Morning Glory because even though my regulars loved me (I knew them so well they didn't even have to order, and I usually had their drink on the counter before they even made it to the register), they knew I wasn't a morning person and found my grunts and snide comments amusing. Endearing...really.

Now that I have three boys, you would think that I would adapt to mornings, but alas, I am just more grumpy because while I have learned to appreciate the silence and slowness of the a.m. hours, my children will somehow jump out of bed with energy unparalleled by even the most skittish of creatures.

So this morning when I rolled out of bed at 9:00 (shut up! As my cousin pointed out, any hour before noon is understood to be morning), and before I even had my coffee made Boo was saying my name from the den (because God forbid we actually walk into the same room and speak in a quiet voice), I decided to implement a plan my husband drew up a couple weeks ago.

PERMISSION SLIPS!!!

I don't know about your kids, but mine ask permission to do EVERYTHING, which I guess is better than the alternative, but really, they will ask me permission to turn on the t.v., or do their chores, or go in the backyard, blah blah blah. I can be nursing a sucking chest wound and my son will ask me if he can have a glass of water. And when I tell him yes, he will get a glass and then interrupt my death AGAIN to ask if he can put ice in it.

But I digress.

The slips give the boys permission to ASK a question...but don't guarantee permission to do what they ask. It works like this:

• The boys get five permission slips. Being the creative person I am with extra time on my hands, I gave them solid white blank index cards.
• If they ask permission to do something, we take a slip.
• If they interrupt us while we are working, just to say our name but not actually ask anything, we take a slip.
• When all the slips are gone, they are not allowed to ask permission for anything else.

SHEER GENIUS, folks.

Even if it doesn't work***, I still love the idea.

Surely I am not the only mother to deal with this. What have you done to curb the incessant asking in your kids?

***about an hour after we explained the rules, my husband found JC sitting at his desk, writing feverishly on each of his cards. Apparently, he was writing down on each card what he wanted to get permission for. “I want to go fishing” was on one. Um yeah...it would appear that the rules were completely lost on him.