Sensitivity

I walk into my four year old son’s room and say, “Good morning, Caleb!” I try to sound cheerful and relaxed, but I’m feeling worried and tense — when will the fighting begin today? I put up one of his shades and he starts to scream.

“Don’t put up my shades!”

“But Honey, it’s morning. It’s time to let the sunlight come in.”

“No, it’s not morning!”

“Come on, don’t be silly. Of course it’s morning. Look how light it is outside. It’s time to get up and get dressed.”

“No, I don’t want to get up!”

“Caleb, you have to get up. We have to get ready for school.”

“Mama, I don’t have school today.”

“Yes, you do, Honey. It’s Wednesday. Wednesday is a school day, remember?”

I get some clothes out of Caleb’s dresser, then ask him to get out of bed so I can help him get dressed. He refuses. I start to pull off his covers and he screams that he wants them back on. So I tell him we can get him dressed while he’s still in his bed, hoping the novelty of that will change his mood. But it doesn’t.

I give up on trying to win Caleb’s cooperation. It will take too much time and we can’t be late for school again. I struggle through getting his pajamas off and his clothes on, as he lies in his bed, screaming and thrashing. I catch several kicks in my stomach, but I don’t reprimand him. I’m determined not to scream at him today. I just take a deep breath and continue. By the time I’ve got him dressed, he’s given up fighting with me, at least for the moment. We’re both exhausted. I’m dreading breakfast and getting into the car, and I imagine he is too. In addition, I’m acutely aware that there’s another child, quietly getting herself dressed in the next room, who would also like some attention from me this morning.

We slog through breakfast. It’s not too cold today, so we don’t have to fight about boots and mittens. We have a brief skirmish related to which jacket Caleb will wear, and then we’re finally in the car. We drop Caleb’s sister at her school and then we head to his school. When we arrive at his classroom, I’m in luck, because one of his friends is playing with toy trucks and calls Caleb over. Caleb loves other children and makes friends easily. His teachers claim that he enjoys preschool and does his best to follow the rules. I take some comfort in this.

Back at home, I make a second cup of tea and sink onto the couch. I think about my son. It seems like we spend all of our time fighting. But I realize that’s not really true. Often, Caleb’s miserable not because of me pushing him to do things he doesn’t want to do, but because he’s exquisitely sensitive.

His clothes are all wrong, his food is all wrong, everything is wrong. His shirt sleeves are rolled up under his sweatshirt sleeves. There’s a tag on the back of his undershirt that’s hurting him. The seams in his socks are hurting him. His pants are too tight. His shoes are too tight. In cold weather, he refuses to wear his mittens, then howls because his hands are freezing. His food makes him gag.  He says it’s too “thick.” When we’re driving in the car, if I sing along with the tape of children’s music that’s usually playing, he shouts, “No singing!”

I pull down his shirt sleeves. I cut the tags off all of his undershirts. I buy socks that don’t have seams and pants with stretchy elastic waists. I loosen his shoelaces again and again. I wrap a blanket around his hands when he’s in his carseat. I give him something else to eat. I don’t sing.

But sometimes I can’t figure out what’s wrong or how to make it right. Then he twitches, groans, stamps his feet, kicks or hits whatever’s nearby, throws things. Tears run down his face, which is twisted in frustration and dark red from all of his exertions or from holding his breath. I want to make him happy. If only I knew how. My tea is cold; I get up from the couch and start my morning’s work. Soon enough it’s time to pick Caleb back up from school.

The afternoon brings a few of the moments I live for, moments when Caleb is content. He figures out how to climb up on a stool and turn on a light all by himself. His huge smile tells me how proud he feels. When we go to pick up his sister, he hugs her hello. When we get back home, he sits quietly beside me on the couch and listens to a story. But when I pull him into my lap and try to kiss him, he pushes my face away and squirms out of my arms. “No kissing!” he shouts. 

Most nights, by the time Caleb’s bedtime arrives, I’m desperate to snuggle with him for a while, to feel his body quiet and at peace, to somehow heal the many arguments we’ve had over the course of the day, the constant misunderstanding or even complete bewilderment we’ve felt about each other.

Tonight is no different. But as usual, Caleb can’t or won’t snuggle, can’t or won’t hold still. Instead, he tries to tickle me. He tries to get me to wrestle with him.  He squirms out of my arms and slides off the edge of the bed so that his head is on the floor and only his feet remain beside me.  He throws his stuffed animals at the ceiling. Tonight, one of them knocks his bedside lamp onto the floor.

Weary and exasperated, I get off the bed and pick up the lamp. Caleb gets off the floor and watches me with a worried look. I’m sure he’s wondering if I’m going to yell at him. The shade is a little dented, but the lamp is otherwise OK. I sigh heavily and, instead of yelling, I say to Caleb, “What am I going to do with you?”  Despite everything, my sweet boy smiles at me, shrugs, and says, “Just love me.”