Great Expectations

The other day, my son was standing on the couch. He then said to Big K, "Watch me, Daddy, I am going to fly off this couch!" and proceeded to spread his arms like wings. He then launched himself off the couch, and, sadly, returned to earth. But here's where it gets interesting. The child then got upset--at himself--for his inability to take flight. He grew sad, hung his head, and said dejectedly, "I guess I can't fly."

I have a two-year-old who beats himself up, routinely, for failing to meet his own unrealistic expectations for himself. It is utterly heartbreaking to watch. And as much as I am a believer in the power of nurture, I have to give some props to nature for this one.

I believe I have stated before, possibly a thousand times, that my husband was one of those weird freaky genius kids. He removed his own training wheels when they pissed him off as a child, and proceeded to teach himself how to ride a bike. His mom didn't know what to do with him at home anymore, so she had him tested for early admittance to kindergarten and he went when he was 4. He put himself in the weirdest little kiddie pressure cooker you can imagine, and was just furious with himself for any failure, perceived or real. He remembers an incident in the first grade when he couldn't find the word "grape" in a word find and just started losing his shit, crying in class because he was so upset with himself for not being able to find the word. (He's 34 years old and he still remembers the word in question, people.) I'd like to be able to report that he has found some inner calm, but he's still pretty much that guy, only now in grown-up world. There are many ways in which the man is a slovenly savage, but in the things that matter to him, he is still the little kid banging his head on the desk because he can't find "grape."

I think Bigs is the same kid.

Within the past few months, there have been an increasing number of incidents in which Bigs attempts something and cannot do it to his standards. And then he gets upset. These things are very wide-ranging. One time he claimed he was not very good at Candy Land when I was playing it with him and Phook. And he got sad and just sagged in his chair and would not play anymore even though I was giving him all the encouragement I could. There are times when he's trying to do something like remove the thin paper backing from one of those tiny foam sticker things, and he can't quite get it, and he just looks like someone stole his best friend when he declares he's "not good" at getting the back off the sticker. Okay, people, I can't get the backing off those damned things. And there are times when he sort of randomly declares that he is not good at something kind of ridiculous, like baseball or reading or whatever.

The kicker? If you're looking at developmental norms, the child is a rock star by pretty much every measure you can think of. He is insanely verbal. I really can't remember a pre-verbal Bigs. Around age 1, he just started talking. All the way. No baby steps, no stumbling to put together sentences. He just had all the parts of speech and used them. He knows words, particularly in terms of things like obscure animals, that stump his grandparents. He's charmingly lisp-y, but there are virtually no limitations on his speech in terms of vocabulary or sentence structure. We've been pretend sword-fighting lately with the pirate swords that were part of the kids' Halloween costumes, and he's been known to say that he is going to "eviscerate" me. Physically, well, I can't quite even describe the level of coordination and physical insanity this child possesses. He is left-handed, and I have to tell him to back up whenever he wants to play catch with me so he doesn't actually injure me, because the kid has a freaking cannon for an arm, with laser-like precision. I mean, seriously, it is not normal. I hang out with kids a lot. I have a few. This kid is abnormally physically gifted.

Okay, I am going to stop going on in that vein because I don't want it to get too annoying, but suffice it to say that he is a bright child who can do things far beyond the reach of most two-year-olds.

And yet, there he is. Disappointing himself. Wearing the look of a world-weary middle-aged dude with two mortgages and a shaky employment status. It kills me. Really. When the child declares himself a failure at something ridiculous and starts to wander away forlornly, I am looking for the cyanide tablet in my space suit, because this is not a planet I want to be on.

I just love that kid. Watching him feel the way he is feeling--alone in a little bubble where he's sure he's not good enough no matter what anyone says--is the saddest thing in the world.

He turned two and a half on January 4th. The child has been on earth less time than some of the things have been on the shelf in my pantry. How could he have feelings this deep and this personal and this unwavering at such a young age?

I've spent a lot of time thinking about this, wondering what I did wrong to make him this way. I think about how I've parented him, and what could have led him to think he's not good enough. I feel like I've done some honest soul-searching on this, and I'd be pretty willing to beat myself if I could pinpoint the blame anywhere near my person, but I just can't crack the code. I have been amazed by him and insanely in love with him forever. I have cheered for him and snuggled him and expressed love for him, both verbally and physically, in the largest amounts I could possibly dispense. When he was born, my father and husband both worried that I was favoring him over Phook, so intense was my love for this little boy. I have been bragging about him and gushing over him for as long as he has been in my life. I have many failings as a parent, but conveying to this child that he is not good enough--in any way--is decidedly not one of them.

But I did do something. I brought him home a baby sister. And while Phook embraced Parkie and began kissing her and loving her within a day or two after her arrival here, Bigs has been much more standoffish. He has never been aggressive toward Parkie, but he doesn't ask to kiss and hold her the way Phook does. He has rarely gotten upset or angry in direct response to me giving the baby attention (for example, he generally doesn't get mad or upset in the moment that I am nursing Parkie or otherwise tending to her directly). But I would say that his sadness and general demeanor of being hard on himself roughly coincides with the arrival of the baby. The last month or so, he has begun warming to the baby more, getting excited when she does something and trying to soothe her when she cries, but I would say that the addition of the Park Rat has been harder on Bigs than the addition of Bigs was on Phook.

He wants to snuggle. This incredibly physical child will stop whatever he is doing, with rare exception, when I invite him to snuggle. His greatest delight seems to be physical affection from me. He wants his back rubbed and his hair played with. There are times he is so upset about something that I'm not even quite sure what to do, but when I pick him up and just hold him, he softens, and he puts his head on my shoulder and cries and cries. His mood is best when I direct every ounce of available energy I have left (plus some I don't) to him.

So I guess I feel that on the one hand, this is just some part of him that is emerging at this young age, something that I cannot counteract no matter how hard I try. I can encourage him and I can cheer for him and I can help teach him coping skills to deal with his frustration, but I can't make that essential part of who he is go away. And that will have to be okay, regardless of how heartbreaking it is to watch. And then there is the part of this that seems to be just him wanting me. Wanting to fold himself up into his smallest possible shape and melt into my body. And having to compete with an infant for that. And hurting because the reality is that oftentimes, the infant has to win.

(As an aside, dear reader, please refer me to this post when I start going nuts about wanting another baby a year from now. Because it will happen.)

Now in addition to the sad, frustrated little guy I have just described, I have to also state that sometimes his frustration turns physical. He has a lot, lot, lot of physical energy. I think that's normal for any little kid, and especially for a boy. When I've compared notes with my friends who have children of both genders, they all seem to agree that boys just physically treat objects differently than girls do, and I have seen that in my house for sure. If there is anything stick-like, such as a bat, a toy golf club, a broom, whatever, Bigs' instinct is to pick it up and swing it wildly and bash it into anything and everything. Phook's instinct would be to swing a bat at a ball that was intentionally pitched to her, swing a toy golf club at a toy golf ball, and to use a broom to sweep. Bigs is just gonna bash everything. So I don't know how much of this to attribute to him being a cooped up little boy with a lot of physical energy and how much to attribute to frustration, but the child has moments of physical wildness that are quite stunning to watch. He just starts running around with an object, brandishing it like a cave man with a club, sometimes chasing Phook, sometimes chasing the dog, sometimes in what looks like a spirit of fun, and sometimes in what looks like a spirit of anger. But the little man can get crazy, and it can be a challenge. A highly unpleasant challenge. I do my best. What else is there?

The flip side to this, interestingly, is his astounding capacity to describe his emotions. He is better at this than Phook. I'm on the bandwagon of trying to get my kids to describe what they're feeling rather than expressing it by beating their sibling over the head with a fistful of Lincoln Logs, so I try to help them come up with words to use when they're pissed. Bigs' favorite phrases include, "I am REALLY FRUSTRATED!" and "I am having a HARD TIME!" He also frequently states that he is mad, sad, or angry. He uses words to describe his emotions in situations where Phook would just throw herself on the floor and cry in misery. He actually uses words to describe his emotions in situations where I would just throw myself on the floor and cry in misery. It's kind of amazing to watch this miniature little dude try to do something, get himself riled up, and then express himself so capably while under duress. We always praise this, of course, and it is the bright shining hope for the future that he continues to grow this skill set in favor of the physical expressions of frustration.

I don't know. I'm trying. I swear I am trying. I am trying to give him as much attention as I can. I don't want him to hurt. I don't want him to be hard on himself. I don't want him to feel left out. I don't want him to be anything but happy. But there is no magic wand here. This parenting gig. As children age, the burden shifts from a physical one to an emotional one. In moments when I feel like I am covered in barnacles shaped like my children while I'm just trying to brush my teeth, I sometimes catch myself longing for that burden to shift, because, my god, it just has to be easier once you can reliably brush your teeth without people hanging on your body. But, you know, I think I'm wrong. I don't see easier coming anytime soon. Not when I've got this little guy, walking around like he's got the weight of the world on his shoulders when he shouldn't have a care in the world.

He's the one. He's the one that rips me up. I could release Phook into the wild and she'd come back having gained five pounds because she would have extorted candy from passers-by on the strength of her own cunning. If I told Phook that 2 + 2 = 4, she would fight me to the death if she thought it was 5, such is this child's confidence level. Not Bigs. Bigs will be solving theorems in the 2nd grade and he will be mad he can't do it faster.

Do you know what he calls it when he puts on his apron (a.k.a. cookin' suit) and helps me in the kitchen? Cheffing it up. As in, "Hey, Mom, can I chef it up with you?"

Yeah buddy, you can chef it up with me. Anytime. Please, little man, when you turn into a slightly bigger little man, and you are mad about things that matter a little more than peeling the backing off of a foam sticker, please come chef it up with me. I will always, always be here to chef it up with you. When you are mad at yourself, please come chef it up with me. It will always be safe here. I will always let you try to crack an egg when you ask, even knowing how it will end, at least for now. It will always be okay with me when that egg spills all over the kitchen. Some day, you'll get that egg--the whole thing--in the bowl. But every day until then, every time the egg spills to the counter, the floor, all over your socks, it will be okay. We will laugh about it and clean it up and move on to the next ingredient. You can chef it up with me. You can always chef it up with me.