It's a lovely day outside. Not quite as lovely, perhaps, as it was a few days ago, when the temperature crept up to almost eighty degrees while the sun shone brightly, but it's about sixty degrees now with sunshine, and I put some started gourd seeds in the ground earlier. Sam came home early from school, as it's parent-teacher conferences today and tomorrow (Eric's gone again, so I get to go by myself to Sam's conference tomorrow), and when Gabe woke up from his nap, I decided, to both kids' delight, that we could take the scooters out for a walk around the neighborhood.

It lasted for about ten minutes before we had to come home; the few people who were outside must have been bemused at the sight of me hauling the ride-ons over one arm, toddler trotting placidly by my side, and big boy howling at the top of his lungs and yanking at my shirt as he dragged his heels. You see, Sam took opposition to our route. He wanted to walk a few blocks to the east, where traffic was much heavier and sidewalks skinnier and often busier with pedestrians. When I told him no, since it wouldn't be as safe, he argued angrily with me; then he glared and muttered under his breath. I couldn't hear it all, but I clearly heard, "I hate you!"

I stopped walking and asked him to repeat what he said. I told him I knew what he said, and that if he could mutter it, he could say it to my face. That's when things got really dicey. He insisted that he hadn't said anything at all, and when I told him that lying wouldn't be tolerated, he said, "Oh. I said...um...shit?" I coughed a little and asked him what else he said. "Damn?"

We went around for a moment, and when I told him that I knew he'd said he hated me, his face got very red, and he denied it. I repeated for the final time that lying was worse than the words, and he still refused to respond. "That's it," I said. "Give me the scooter. We're going home."

Oh, then he was forthcoming. "Okay, okay! I said I hated you! I'm sorry!" I told him that I accepted his apology, but that we were still going home. I was very calm through the whole thing, never raising my voice or even displaying anger; it didn't matter to Sam, though. He burst into tears, sobbing the whole way home. After he tried to yank the scooter out under from my arm, I told him he'd have to go to his room when we got home. He hollered that he was going to refuse to go to school tomorrow (forgetting that there was no school anyway). He was emotionally out of control, but we kept walking, and he followed.

Now he's sulking in his room. Honestly, it's probably not going to get better when he comes out of his room, either, and maybe I'll be the awful mother now who admits that she's tempted to have him stay there longer than is strictly necessary to help him calm down and regain control of himself. That would be the easy way, though. Really, what I should, and will, do is go up there in a few minutes, sit with him and help talk through what happened. He'll be fine for at least half an hour after that, I hope.

It's other kids that make the situation harder. In arguments like that one, I hear the older kids on the playground coming through in his words and expressions. Times like that, I wish I could just keep him sheltered away from all the bad influences of the world, but I know I couldn't do it, that it wouldn't be right. Even if I home-schooled, he'd face that sort of thing on the playground, in sports, what have you; I don't think that public schools have any sort of monopoly on rudeness or misbehavior. (Probably the scariest kids I've seen are the ones living a few houses down from us and some of the ones we met through T-ball, not at school at all.) It's just a knee-jerk reaction, the idea that if I could just keep him away from everybody, he'd never lose the wide-eyed gentleness and honesty he had as a toddler. Again, too easy an answer.

So, in the course of the time it's taken me to write this, I did go upstairs and cuddle with Sam on his bed. He's calmed down, and we had a pretty good discussion about lying and how it hurts everybody. He got rather upset when I tried to use an analogy of lies being a wedge making a split in a log, and how even when the wedge is removed, the split remains. I told him that our log, our family, is a living thing, and that time can help heal the splits, but it's hard to repair that hurt. As it turned out, he confessed that he never even actually swore about the walk; he just thought he'd get in less trouble for four-letter words than he would for saying he hated me. (That's actually a good assessment of my priorities, but the lying was the most problematic for me.)

I also told him about my concern about him picking up bad behavior from kids at school, and he immediately began to squirm. It hit a nerve for him. "James is naughty," he said. "I watch him play and do naughty things, and then I do them." I asked him why he would copy James if he knew it was naughty, and he wailed, "Because it looks so cool!"

Whoever first said, "Little kids, little problems; big kids, big problems," nailed it. Why can't I just go back to tantrums over tooth brushing? Oh, that's right; I've got that with Gabe.

Highlight of the week: we got the carpet put in on our stairs, hallway, and bedroom. This improved the look and feel of our house to a level I can't begin to describe fully. I mean, all the tacking down and hammering even made the steps less squeaky! It feels great to walk up and down the hall now, and our bedroom feels luxuriously cozy and quieter. Even Eric, who was only mildly committed to the idea at the beginning, is hooked; he wants to replace the living room carpet next, and he'd put down carpet in the dining room, too, if I agreed to it (though I won't, taking into account the eating habits of Sam and Gabe).

I have to admit, too, that after hauling our furniture out to sweep behind it in preparation for the carpet, it became embarrassingly yet comfortingly obvious that if Sam wasn't falling over dead of allergies every time he stepped foot into our room before, the carpet can't make things worse. I don't think I could possibly take worse care of the carpeted floor than I was with the hardwood in the non-visible places. Ahem.

Hey (she quickly changes the subject)! Doctor Who starts up with the new season in two days! Of course, that's in the UK, but I'll, er, be declaring myself a "virtual citizen" for the purposes of viewing my favorite show, if you know what I mean. You can only ask so much of a girl's patience, really...

previous

one year ago: I tried using a party noisemaker to get their attentions when they weren't looking at me, but Gabe was terrified of the noise and cried when I used it. two years ago: I need to finish packing. (Heh. I love the implication that I've actually started packing.) three years ago: Well, I "creep" in the manner that any pregnant woman creeps to the bathroom after an extended period of no potty breaks. I crept with speed. four years ago: He likes to jump on it, climb onto it, and pull the covers up to his chin, murmuring, "Nigh-nigh!" five years ago: When the big boys staged elaborate train wrecks, he laughed and shook until it seemed he had to fall down. He never did. six years ago: If anybody mentions dancing hippos, though, I won't be responsible for my actions. seven years ago: If the three-year-olds can get it right off the bat, then what does that say about the librarians who need multiple repetitions?

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