As my chest heaved with heavy sobs, I heard the door open. My five-year-old, clad in pajamas, walked out of of his room. Seeing the tears streaming down my face, he stared.
“Your yelling woke me up,” he said. I just looked back without words, blinking.
“Mommy is feeling sad,” my husband said. He got up off the couch and ushered my son back to bed.
A wave of shame swept over me. Did he overhear me talking? My cry of frustration was over how my son had been treating me.
The transition to kindergarten has been alternating between glorious and tough. I joke about the “Inexplicable Meltdown of the Day,” with the height of it him being angry that pistachio ice cream exists. But the emotional intensity is exhausting. Some days, it’s great – he’s recounting what they did at school with enthusiasm. Others, he’s flat out of any reserves of self-control. Something comes into his mind – hit his brother, refuse to wash his hands, throw colored pencils – he does it. Consequences be damned.
Coming home at 6:30 PM, I get the biggest hit. The kids cram all of their emotions towards me – both good and bad – into a mere two hours. From my older son, that’s been a hell of a lot since the start of the school year. I’ve gotten flailing hands, going limp at bedtime, screaming, scowls, and way too many yells of “I don’t care!”
In response, my brain reaches back. Way back. It digs up memories of kids making fun of me at the bus stop. Of holding back my tears so they wouldn’t see them. Of the times I failed to.
With my husband back on the couch after putting my son to bed, I look at him and ask, “Is he going to be a bully?”
“No,” he says firmly. “Shannon, you see the worst of him. Don’t judge him based on those few hours.”
“That’s true,” I admit.
There are so many hours I don’t see. The hours spent at his desk focusing on craft projects or on the playground interacting with other kids. The hours he spends listening to other people, following directions, keeping his temper, giving people appropriate space. The hours during which he has so few choices, so little control.
Then I come home. Knowing that I will love him no matter what, my son falls apart. Knowing I will reinforce boundaries, he pushes them. Knowing I love spending time with him, he tries to stretch out bedtime as long as possible.
Despite my frustration, I know he’s acting the way he is because he feels safe and loved. Bullies try to have control over people who are weaker than they are so they can feel powerful. They pick up their behavior by watching adults around them do it. In contrast, my son is trying to grasp some control that’s tenuous at best for the rest of his day. My husband and I are the strongest people for him cling to. He knows we won’t move as anchors, no matter how hard he pushes.
As the kindergarten transition continues, I hope that this disrespectful, uncontrolled behavior will get less common. The steadier we stand, the steadier he will be. We’re already seeing signs of it – calmer dinner conversations, getting back into the rhythm of bedtime, staying in bed instead of yelling for an hour.
Whatever happens, I will stay his safe space. Without letting him walk all over me, I will model kindness and generosity. Most of all, I will help him know I love him – no matter what.