…. about a little man named, “Shh.” Yes. AGAIN.
When Cole has nothing to say, he finds something to say. He makes noises, mumbles incoherently, and sings Decemberists songs (The Engine Driver is his go to, but he really only knows the chorus so he walks up and down the hall singing, “I’m an engine driiiiiiiiveeeeeeerererer.”) There is quiet in my house only when he’s sleeping, and that’s not even a mild exaggeration.
When he and Hayden were about two, Karen and I took the 1.5-hour drive to Rutherfordton, NC to check out the town’s awesome children’s museum. Cole yapped the entire time. No, you aren’t hearing me on this. When I say he talked the entire hour and a half I mean that quite literally. Hayden stared desolately out the window. Cole chatted to the back of his head. About 15 minutes out, Karen said that she didn’t think she could be his mother.
“I really couldn’t. I don’t know how you deal with that.” She smiles, but she’s deadly serious.
I thought he talked a lot, but the shocked expressions and exclamations of, “My, he’s a chatter,” have confirmed that he really never shuts the hell up. Oh, and got this little gem upon picking him up from school on Thursday:
Sweet, innit? The consequence of this was the taking of five trains, which is really the only way to rock his little world. I took the trains and put them atop the refrigerator. He wailed and I pulled him into a hug. Children, let me tell you a little truth: When your momma said that punishing you hurt her too, she wasn’t lying. It breaks my heart – not just his sadness. It’s not just that, because sadness is a part of life. What paaaaaains me is his behavior. When he is snide to me or to others or when he demonstrates a lack of care and respect.… it makes me sad. There you go.
So I hold him close and we talk and I explain this, that his behavior hurts his teacher and hurts the other children. I explain that no one wants to be ignored. No one wants to feel not listened to. He seems to be getting it. He sniffles.
“Can I have my trains back now?” He looks to the top of the refrigerator where five battery-powered trains wait, silent.
“No. Five days.”
He glares at me, narrows his eyes. “This is your fault!”
That could be true. I don’t know. What I do know is that I’m not going to listen to that bollocks from a sullen, sarcastic, back-talking kid. So I sent him to his room to cry/berate me from his bed. My advice? I don’t think I have any at this point; I’m working through it. Stick to yer guns? Maybe. Stay tuned.