Sadness, part two

I did something last night and I can’t stop thinking about it.

I hit Graham.

Slapped actually. I would like to say swatted, but in my heart of hearts I know it was more than a swat. It was a slap. A firm one.

Let me set the stage.

Graham napped little yesterday. He had his first meltdown in the car on the way home from his babysitter’s. He was still raging nearly an hour later. I offered him a drink. Some bread and peanut butter. I got his blanket. Put on his favorite music. Attempted to cuddle him and play blocks with him.

He screamed in my ear. Flailed. Threw his toys at me. Slapped me.

I spoke to him in soothing tones. I put him on the naughty step for a time out. Twice.

Eventually the whining became at least intermittent. He started to play. I sat on the floor and arranged my legs as a tunnel (his favorite) and he crawled under them. I felt a shooting pain in my thigh. He bit me. Hard.

Harder than he had ever bitten me before.

I was, I think, remarkably calm. I swiftly got down to his level, held his chin and looked directly into his eyes. “NO BITING.” I carried him firmly, but not roughly, and placed him on the step in the other room.

I walked away and zipped off my corduroy jeans. A throbbing inch-long welt was already turning nasty shades of black and purple. I wiped away a single drop of blood and applied some polysporin.

I took a few minutes. I needed them.

I collected him. He was apprehensive, but otherwise nonplussed. I showed him the welt. “You hurt mommy. No biting. Biting hurts people.”

He smiled angelically at me, unsure. Regretful? Yes, I told myself. Regretful.

I picked him up. Kissed him. Hugged him. “No biting, Graham. No more biting. It hurts mommy.”

I picked up a book and settled with him on my lap. He started to whine. “Come on, Graham. Look, it’s Elmo.”

Smack.

I felt his nail rip through the skin on my cheek. I felt a dark, hot flash of anger.

And I slapped him.

I slapped him pretty hard. On his leg. He was wearing track pants, but there was no doubt he felt a sting. He blinked in surprise. Burst into tears.

I gathered him in my arms, heart racing. I rubbed his back. “No hitting. You can’t hit.” I blinked back tears. What a hypocritical thing to say. “That’s hitting Graham. Hitting hurts. You see, it hurts. That’s why we don’t do it.” Stupid, stupid rationalization.

I have always thought that parents, loving parents who are thoughtful enough to ponder these things in the first place, worry too much about defining their position with regards to spanking. I have always felt entirely comfortable with my own philosophy.

I don’t believe striking children is an acceptable way to discipline them. I don’t think it’s very effective or creative and I absolutely believe parents should avoid it. But I also always figured that Graham would likely receive a few swats throughout his childhood, due to frustration and/ or anger. I was human. He would likely push my buttons. I would likely lose my temper. And I felt okay with that.

I have heard people say that if one is going to spank a child, it should never, ever be in anger and that seems absurd to me. A calm and calculated administration of physical punishment strikes me as far more disturbing than a quick, thoughtless smack delivered out of exasperation and frustration.

I think it can be good for a child to see a normally calm and collected parent lose their temper. Not to freak out and melt down, mind you, but to throw aside their practical, parental reserve and expose some raw emotion.

I remember being about 10 years old and being in a pissy mood with my mom, who is as quiet and non-confrontational as they come. She asked me (probably for the umpteenth time) to put away some books I left around and I responded in typical fashion; bitchy, insolent, thankless. I remember her hurling those books against the wall and shrieking at me in manner I didn’t know she was capable of.

I was struck dumb. The force of her anger punctured my thick, bubble of preteen self-absorption. For the first time ever I saw, really saw, the exhaustion and frustration in her eyes. It moved me and I have never forgotten it.

But then Graham is too young for my temper to provide any kind of a teaching moment, isn’t he? He is too young to be struck by the revelation of his mother as a human being.

He is too young to be struck.

And that’s why I can’t stop thinking about what I did last night.