Consequences and Punishments

What are you doing?

Nothing, he says.

What’s in your mouth?

Nothing, he says.

Open it.

(He opens it. Can’t see anything. Candy must be hidden inside his cheek.)

Were you in the bathroom?

No, he says.

Were you in the pantry getting candy without asking?

No, he says.

Then what were you doing?

I was walking around and reading, he says.

(I have mandated an hour of peace in my house. The little boys are napping. It’s been a busy on-the-go morning and I’m reclining on the couch, laptop perched, dog’s head rested on my legs. I don’t want the noise of the TV or a video game. I don’t want the noise of rolling dice, even, or the shuffling of cards. I want quiet. Only quiet. Only the sound of the dryer running and my fingers punching on the keys. So I’ve mandated reading time for my 7-year-old. And for the last 15 minutes he’s been sitting with his nose in Harry Potter #4 at the other end of the couch. Until…he wandered off.)

No you weren’t, I say.

(He stares blankly at me.)

You have a choice. You can lie to me or tell me the truth. Which do you think is better? I ask.

Truth.

(I give him the look that says, “Well, then spill it.”)

I was in the pantry getting candy without asking.

No video games for the weekend, I say. And I turn back to my computer.

**********

I’m tired of consequences. I’m tired of knowing which ones to dole out. Which will make my point. I’m tired of trying to figure out what my point is, exactly. Which offense is worse than the next. Because there is always a next.
And perhaps I should have reserved this punishment for a heftier crime. For catching him in a lie. For being mean to his brothers, again! It was just a little piece of candy, after all. But it’s always “just this” or “just that.” There are too many lines to draw and I’m getting exhausted of figuring out which ones should be solid and which ones dotted.

So, maybe my punishment is too harsh. Too harsh today, but not harsh enough tomorrow. For tomorrow’s offense. Or the wrongdoing he’ll reap in an hour, no doubt, when his brothers wake up. I’m tired of keeping track of my own parenting. And that of my husband’s, for that matter. Tired of never knowing if there is an absolute right. If my brain is listening to my heart. If my heart is giving me good answers.  Tired of trying so hard to be consistent. But I am. Pretty consistent. At least I think I am. And yet…

The boy keeps up with the same shitty habits for months at a time. Things we try to reverse in so many ways: There is yelling. There is hand-holding and reasoning. There are circumstances for consequences. There is punishment. There is no punishment. There is sympathy and empathy and understanding. There are quiet talks and fireside chats. Nothing consistently works. And that is why Change has always been my mantra. The kids are ever-changing, and I must be also.

Don’t be fooled. Parenting gets harder and harder as your kids get older and older. Most days I would take diapers and midnight feedings over dealing with my 7-year-old. But I only think that when I am at my wit’s end, of course. Which, although that’s most of the time, is not all of the time.

Because there are times like last night when I sat at our kitchen table and taught my boy multiplication. And he soaked it up in about 5 minutes and solved three problems all on his own. His brain was expanding before my eyes and that is just too cool for words.

And there is history, of course. The history of him and me together. From the hour I first knew he existed inside of me. And taking the time to reflect upon our history thus far makes me giddy and excited to create more of it. To watch him rise and reach for more. To witness his changing soul. To help him hone in on his passions.

He’s gone back to his reading and so will I. Until, of course, the little boys awake and there will surely be more circumstances for consequences.

**********

Mama?

(I look at him waiting for the question. He does not yet realize, at 7!, that when I turn my head toward him that means I’m listening and ready.)

Yes, I finally say (although we’ve been looking directly at one another for about 30 seconds).

Can you take TV away instead?

(I’m silent.)

(He waits.)

(I delay.)

I mean, do video games count as TV?

I’ll think about it, I say. And I turn back to my computer and he to his book. The dog groans a little and starts to snore.

Tagged as: I'm tired of being the parent