scribblechic

Thanksgiving was quiet, the meal lent us substance, but our spirits were weighted. My son began to unravel, stirrings of sadness, frustration, and anger finding a voice; he stepped out of the solitary space of his thoughts and released tears of frustration. It was an exhausting exercise, to absorb his anger and sadness; sharing his pain while keeping mine bundled; demonstrating concern while processing the problem logically, looking for an opportunity to make sense and offer support.

Normally my son recedes into a game or music when he cannot calm himself. The holiday had established new boundaries that asked him to set aside individual entertainment for the company of family and friends. The effort to engage became overwhelming and the day culminated when we had to address a social faux pas. My son used a word that sounded like an inappropriate word. As I typically do, I pulled him aside for a quick teaching moment. Quickly my efforts to guide resulted in a difficult lesson. This was our exchange:

I need you to understand that using the word you used is inappropriate.

I didn’t use an inappropriate word.

Unfortunately the word you used sounds too close to another word, which is inappropriate, and you cannot use either word.

But I didn’t do anything wrong.

You aren’t in trouble, but using that words creates a problem and you will be seen as acting inappropriately.

(And this is where patience crumbled and recent injuries swelled absorbing the moment with tears and anger.)

I am not a bad kid! Why do bad kids get away with everything and I get in trouble for nothing?

Now we were at the heart of the harm. The greatest injuries often rest in a place of injustice. Life is full of disappointment hidden beneath good intentions. My son in his flurry of anger revealed a secondary harm, he felt the burden of discontent over life’s inconsistencies. I had become part of the imbalance of fairness. I couldn’t broaden the scope of his perspective to see that the separate events were not equal, because my son was lost to the space between hurts.

He walked away from me and found comfort in the easy company of a friend. Under the patient watch of his friend, my son folded himself into a compact crouched pose and began tinkering inside an unused oven in our hosts’ basement. In this endeavor he was peaceful. I couldn’t make sense of the transition. It was as if a switch had been flipped and the negative energy had slipped away like an ill-fitting sheath. Tinkering, my son began to relax and resume a more even-tempered spirit; eyes bright with curiosity.

I note this because I felt like one learning a secret and wondered if great inventors or adventurers felt the same sense of awe when uncovering new knowledge. I wanted to scribble against the sky:

For my son to unwind, he must engage physically and mentally in an activity transferring his energy into something mechanical.

A wave of hope washed over me. My son had revealed a source of self soothing that I can try to duplicate and facilitate in different environments. It is another path on an amazing journey that I have only begun to understand.