Not words you want to hear come out of your child's mouth.
Especially not your 4 year old.
It's one thing to say them to me. I understand trauma. I understand there's more to you than the words. I know that underneath the anger there is a very anxious and scared little boy with a disorder involving sight and the brain. I'm certain that being visually impaired and constantly banging into, tripping over, and falling on things is terribly frustrating.
But it's another thing to say them at school.
Especially in this day and age.
And it's difficult for this mom to be told he did it again today. Two weeks in a row, this was the conversation at pick-up. One therapist suggested that he's just repeating what I say at home.
Really??????
Another theory was that he's picking these phrases up from the TV in the corner, that obviously must be turned on all day long.
Except that our TV is very rarely on, and even more rare for Victor to be in the room when it is on.
So I asked him one day on the way home, "What happened today?"
"I said mean words."
"What did you say?"
"I said I want to beat you up!" Pause. "Mom, what does 'beat you up' mean?"
Ah ha. We're on to something. "Well, where did you hear that?"
"On my Bible CD. They beat him up then they left him there. Then the Levite walked by but didn't help him. Then the priest walked by and didn't help him. Then a Samaritan stopped to help him."
A scared, angry, frustrated little brain trying to understand the world and when dysregulated, trying out words and phrases he thinks might be appropriate to the situation.
Except they're not.
No more Bible CDs for you, young man.
So after two weeks of this, we came to a day off. Thankfully, a respite from the opinions and whispered guesses of others. But a day with Mr. Victor, to bear the brunt of his anger and harsh words. To remain calm and to connect while facing the constant barrage of insulting language. I dreaded the day.
But then he got the pan out and wanted to play Chef. For some reason, I'm always Chef Amanda when we pretend in this vein. And only a real pan and the real stove would do.
(And no, it was not on. And yes, I was there the entire time. No need to call CYS.)
To appeal to his senses, I found a spice from the cabinet. I introduced the name and the smell to him. He added it to his "soup". He requested another. Twenty spices later his soup was complete. And I savored the precious moments with my sweet, loving, and precocious child. The harsh words would return, but for this moment, he was just like any of my other preschoolers back in the day - pretending, exploring, and connecting. Victory has been promised and we continue to wait for it. Until then, I will enjoy each precious moment.
Even when he says he wants to turn me into a beast.
(Okay, no more fairy tales, either.)
Anyone want some soup? Although I do believe it is a little too heavy on the cinnamon and too light on the curry.
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