Dad vs the Boy

Saturday was a long day.  We went to the mall to take care of eyeglasses for the Wife and then I had a trip to my alma mater for a retirement party for my former track coach.  The mall was sort of on the way, so we took separate cars to get there and out first stop was LensCrafters.

The kids were barely controllable.  The boy in particular was difficult.  Climbing under tables, competing for the same empty chair (when there were other empty chairs to steps away), running through the store dipping and dodging other patrons- these were the order of the moment.  Tensions began building quickly as a number of countermeasures were employed attempting to arrest the obnoxiousness.  Multiple trips into the main mall area and to the bathroom, as well as distraction techniques and threats of punishment provided only temporary respites.  The problem is that getting new eye glasses takes a long time and the kids patience level is not that long.  Not even close.

The Wife and I had pretty much had it when the eyeglass visit finally ended.  The boy made one last play.  Despite being told to stay with us he darted towards some chairs he wanted to sit in.  In the process he cut off a large group of people who did their best not to mow him down.   That was it- I made good on one of my threats and I took him by the wrist.  I would not be letting him go until it we were back in the parking lot ready to leave.  For those of you in the audience thinking “That wasn’t going to set well”- you are correct.  It didn’t.

While the wife took the lass to try on pants for school, I took the boy amidst a steady stream of “I want to hold Mom’s hand”, “Dad let me go”, “I don’t want you to hold my hand”, “Stop it” and so on.  The wrestling match that ensued for possession of his wrist must have made for amusing viewing.  For about 20 minutes he contorted himself and worked at my hand and fingers in every way his mind could conceive attempting to break free.  It was all for naught- for him.

During his struggles, I made sure to repeatedly impress upon him that we had asked him to behave, to slow down, to listen and he had chosen not to.  He was now suffering the consequences of his choices.  Let’s be honest- being forced to hold Dad’s hand isn’t exactly the “MOST HORRIBLE PUNISHMET IN THE ENTIRE WORLD.”  At least- I don’t think so.

He finally resigned himself to his fate when I half-dragged him around the mall in an attempt to break his fixation on escape.  Seeing a car sitting in the middle of the mall for people to inspect helped out here.  He found that interesting and puzzled over how the car might have ended up there.  Shortly thereafter, the Wife and the Lass were done and we headed for a little lunch.

At this point, I let his hand go so he could help carry things to the table, eat his food, and go to the bathroom.  I also figured his calming down had earned him a brief break.  In retrospect, I’m pretty sure my “generosity” laid the stages for his final act.

After lunch, we started walking back and I took him by the wrist again.  He immediately began complaining- and the wrestling match started anew.  But this time there was a sense of desperation on his part.  He even began complaining loudly that I was hurting him.  I know I wasn’t.  I was very much aware of how hard I was holding him-  when he paused, I relaxed so that my grip was loose; when he starting working at my fingers, I would tense up carefully so as not to squeeze him.  It was around this point where he started to half-heartedly kick me.  I ignored this latest escalation- I decided it was just part of the process.

We finished our business at the mall and it was time for me to head out to the retirement party.  The boy had sort of settled- he continued to complain but his physical struggles had subsided dramatically.  On the way out- he made a final complaint that “You said you would let me go when we were heading out to the car.”  A nice attempt at manipulation.  What I had said was “I’ll let you go WHEN we get to the car” and I calmly corrected him.  His response?  He kicked me in the lower leg.  Hard.  Hard like he almost made me trip and I could feel the kick well after it had been administered.  Hard enough that I knew instantly I couldn’t let it pass.

When we got to the car I squatted down, looked him in the eye and told him “This is for kicking me.”  I then gave him a swat on the rear- which immediately resulted in tears.  I had him get in the car.  The Wife was extremely upset, as was I, but having witnessed everything (including the kicks) she understood.  I was heading up to the party now and the last thing I wanted was to leave him on that kind of note.  As a final act attempting to drive home to him the abysmal way he had behaved I chose not to say good-bye to him.

I was exhausted.  The constant struggle from the boy and my own assessments of how to conduct myself had taken there toll.  The thing was- if he had demonstrated that he understood that it had been HIS behavior that had caused him the trouble I very well could have justified relenting.  He never did- right up to the final kick.  I certainly couldn’t relent while he struggled.  He’s a smart kid- had I relented then the next time would be worse because he would have had the experience of winning out with whining and carping and misplaced defiance.  The example would have been set.

Later that night, I spoke with the Wife about the rest of the day.  She had taken them to a little birthday party for her Aunt.  The boy had gotten money from his piggy bank and insisted on “paying.”  He had served himself salad, chicken and fries.  He had even made a birthday card for the Wife’s aunt.

I was sorry I has I had missed it all.