Sensory overload? or Manipulative tactic? Sometimes I know exactly which is which. Most of the times, I am simply guessing, out of my wits. Two days straight. Kicking, hair pulling, pinching and screaming. I stop myself from crying out. I convince myself to be strong for Garret, for me, for both of us, for all of us. I must not show anger. I must not react. But deep down, I am questioning the absurdity of these two mantras. When a meltdown or tantrum occurs, no holds are barred. And it is up to the parent to hold on and be strong. How many times have I heard these two words of encouragement? Hope, strength. But tell me, why is it that when I am in the middle of this dark moment, these words just seem to fly out the window? No anger? no emotion? no reaction? This is what parents should do to show the child that tantrums do not work. But how can it be? When my child screams, I lose control and I tell him, I shout to him, " Would you please stop!!! Stop it! STOP IT!" In my mind I am screaming, "Why God?! please stop this pain...".
I am human, I say to myself. So I have every justification to be angry. I cannot be strong all the time. I cannot be a warrior all the time, fighting for every bit of sanity. I break down. I weep. For my child. for myself. He cannot communicate as we all do, as normal kids do. Thus, tantrums arise. Tantrums are their way of communicating what they want. Then the hard reality slaps me--I am not the only one in survival mode. My son is too, every single day of his life. And if I cannot stretch my patience and sustain my strength for him, he will lose the fight. And this is when I regret every time I allow my humanness to take over. I have to be strong. I have to hold on. I have to hang on to hope. I have to choose to be strong. My child did not ask to be brought to this life. I chose to bear him. Therefore I must choose every single day to be what Garret needs me to be--strong, flexible, open-minded, controlled, level-headed, grateful and loving no matter what.
And yes, through these tumultuous instances, once again, my son is teaching me. He is teaching me his language. And as all languages require, I must learn to listen. Listen to him with his ears. Hear his cries with his heart. These two days, I feel I have failed to listen to him. We ended up both exhausted, with sweat and tears drenching our bodies. I bounce him on the ball, I cradle him and wrap him tight. He places both my arms to cover his ears as if to block out any noise or perhaps the terrible memory of what just occurred? He mumbles something like, "mh-hm" over and over as if to console himself. My heart is ripped. I tell him, " Garret, please don't do that again. Tell me what you want properly." As I say this to him, my mind is racing. Does he understand? Do I understand? I tell him further, " I am sorry, anak. I love you. And I want you to learn. And I want to give you what you want and need. Just not that way." This time I do not care if he understands or not. If my words penetrate the walls that surround him. I prod, " I love you, my darling. You know that? Mama loves you so very much... and I'm sorry I was not strong for you today."
In a little while, he starts to smile while still mumbling his self-soothing words. We continue to bounce. This rhythmic rocking up and down calms us both. Garret is now giggling. I turn his face towards me and I ask him for a kiss. He pushes his cheek forward and I kiss him. He smiles all the more. In the end...which side wins? Morrie Schwartz was right in saying, "Love wins, love always wins."
I am human, I say to myself. So I have every justification to be angry. I cannot be strong all the time. I cannot be a warrior all the time, fighting for every bit of sanity. I break down. I weep. For my child. for myself. He cannot communicate as we all do, as normal kids do. Thus, tantrums arise. Tantrums are their way of communicating what they want. Then the hard reality slaps me--I am not the only one in survival mode. My son is too, every single day of his life. And if I cannot stretch my patience and sustain my strength for him, he will lose the fight. And this is when I regret every time I allow my humanness to take over. I have to be strong. I have to hold on. I have to hang on to hope. I have to choose to be strong. My child did not ask to be brought to this life. I chose to bear him. Therefore I must choose every single day to be what Garret needs me to be--strong, flexible, open-minded, controlled, level-headed, grateful and loving no matter what.
And yes, through these tumultuous instances, once again, my son is teaching me. He is teaching me his language. And as all languages require, I must learn to listen. Listen to him with his ears. Hear his cries with his heart. These two days, I feel I have failed to listen to him. We ended up both exhausted, with sweat and tears drenching our bodies. I bounce him on the ball, I cradle him and wrap him tight. He places both my arms to cover his ears as if to block out any noise or perhaps the terrible memory of what just occurred? He mumbles something like, "mh-hm" over and over as if to console himself. My heart is ripped. I tell him, " Garret, please don't do that again. Tell me what you want properly." As I say this to him, my mind is racing. Does he understand? Do I understand? I tell him further, " I am sorry, anak. I love you. And I want you to learn. And I want to give you what you want and need. Just not that way." This time I do not care if he understands or not. If my words penetrate the walls that surround him. I prod, " I love you, my darling. You know that? Mama loves you so very much... and I'm sorry I was not strong for you today."
In a little while, he starts to smile while still mumbling his self-soothing words. We continue to bounce. This rhythmic rocking up and down calms us both. Garret is now giggling. I turn his face towards me and I ask him for a kiss. He pushes his cheek forward and I kiss him. He smiles all the more. In the end...which side wins? Morrie Schwartz was right in saying, "Love wins, love always wins."
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