Sisters | Life | Three Kids

I rocked my 7-year-old boy in my arms, his long body hanging off mine, flowing onto the white down comforter and the well-worn green flannel sheets that wrapped the mattress of my own childhood bed. How can he be so big? It’s not fair that I can’t curl him into me anymore. I sat and held him while he sobbed. I felt the release of his cares and his worry–his constant awareness of the expectations he can never seem to meet. Our expectations.

“The little boys take a lot of work, don’t they?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he muttered.

“It’s crazy in this house. So busy. I’m just so tired, Jamis. But I want to spend more time with you, okay? I want to make time for you and me to do the things you want to do. To play games. To…” His shoulders shook as I spoke these words. His body giving way inch-by-inch. This is your moment, Sarah, a moment you need to wrap your whole heart around and give to your sweet, loving boy.

“Let’s have family game night every week, okay? You can stay up late and Daddy and me will play with you,” I paused at each nod of his head. I continued reaching for ideas of ways I could show my son–instead of relying on always telling him–that I love him just as much as his brothers. Because I know he can’t see it; he doesn’t feel it. I spend so much time dressing and bathing and teaching the little boys. I expect Jamis to take care of himself. But he’s seven. Seven. He so very much needs me and I am so very much lost to him. His tears wash over me a feeling of dread for the time that’s been lost between us while I’ve carried and birthed his two brothers.

“Do you have anything that you want to tell me?” I ask.

He stands, and takes a step back. One hand is on my arm and the other is reaching up to brush the hair away from my face.

“I wish there wasn’t so much yelling.”

And there it is. A truth. There is too much yelling. Too little time for smooth explanations and too little patience when things go awry. When things don’t go the way I need them to, or think that they should.

“I don’t like it when you yell at me, and I don’t like it when you yell at the little boys, either. I don’t like it when people get in trouble.” And my heart melts. And all I can say is:

“You’re right. There’s too much yelling. And I am going to stop that, okay?”

And I meant it.

We snuggled up together and chatted some more. Jamis told me some other things he would like to work on–like giving him suggestions when I tell him to “go find something to do” instead of flailing around the living room and instigating another wrestling match with the little boys.

And then we cracked Shel Silverstein and read each other silly poems. It was sweetness. It was my moment–with my kid. It was ours.

The next morning I alerted my husband about the No-Yelling Policy for the remainder of the week. He looked straight at me and said, “Okay, how the hell are we going to do that?”

Yeah, how? Well, I’ve been more conscious of me and less conscious of them. Oddly, it seems to have helped. More focus on myself  has equated to more positive focus on the kids. And I don’t mean I’m pampering myself or even spending time doing anything for me, I only mean that I think about my own mental and emotional state before I fly off the handle at the next blood-boiling thing that they’ve done. And trust me, there’s so many of those that one example is just pointless.

While generally my husband is wonderful with getting on board with a new “parenting decision,” I thought this one would be a little tricky. And I was right. In the middle of his rant during bedtime tonight, I turned to my husband and said “No Yelling” in a kind of sing-song voice. I knew it wouldn’t go over well. In fact, I assumed he’d storm out of the bedroom and back to his office. But he took a breath and calmed his nerves. The energy that he’d sucked out of the room just moments earlier during his fury was restored, and he tumbled to the ground with the little boys and made a fort under the covers.

Giggling and happiness resumed, I smiled and shut the door behind me. My heart was calm as I walked across the hall to Jamis’s room for a goodnight kiss. While I would love to give this story a happy ending, the truth is that I found Jamis crying into his pillow because he didn’t know what to do. I suggested reading or cards or listening to music, but nothing was good enough; he didn’t bite.  It was 12 minutes until lights out and I was just done–ready for a glass of wine and a good book. But I didn’t yell or even get upset. I quietly clicked the door behind me with the knowledge that tomorrow is here too quickly. My sweet boy will sleep soundly and things will begin anew.

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