Riley has recently, on occasion, hit another child.
I feel that by writing that sentence I have hauled myself up to a flagellant’s cross and handed over the whip to anyone inclined to flick it at me. It first began – and I’m a witness – in the spirit of exuberance, of fun. He might be playing with others and they giggle, and then jump up and down, arms flail, and the biff! Pure accident. He’s also done it in horseplay, as adults do, when they mock punch each other on the shoulder and say, good job, or well done. Except his sometimes lands harder than it ought.
Of course, he’s done it in anger too, and this is when I begin to worry.
I pull him aside and there are severe recriminations. I confess I feel deeply embarrassed and mortified when this happens. You do not do that to anyone, I say. It is not nice.
I have friends who have raised boys much older than Riley and I remember being told the troubles some had at times. One child was a biter. I was sympathetic because I know that at a early age, when language fails a child, they aren’t developmentally able to express their frustrations in a more appropriate manner. However I wonder if that defence would float for Riley, now he is four. And this doesn’t happen often. He plays really well normally.
***
“Here mum, these are yours,” said Keira, throwing two pairs of underpants in my lap. There they lay, limp and thin. “They got mixed up in my my stuff.”
It’s becoming an ever easier mistake to make. I used to sort through the clean washing quickly: in the days of all-in-one suits they were rolled up, the toddler clothes were easily distributable thanks to the gendered colours that inevitably partisaned the washing basket. I did it all with a contented, Buddhist detachment I should be so lucky to find in other areas of my life.
This extended to the ironing, too. At least it did up until Mr. Abbott recently – with one flip, totally backhanded remark – held the hot plate up to my face and scolded ( &/or scalded?) me with it. He thinks the economy would be better off if we sent out our ironing for others to do.
Can’t we silly housewives understand?
Part of me wants to shrug it off. Who cares? I think. It’s just another example of a politician opening their mouth and by veering off from their scripts gives us an insight into what they really think about those of ‘us’ at home and how we do not fit the preferred mould of ‘worker’.
But hey, I work. I keep the house going, I try to write, I try to blog. I even publish on occasion. In do this all in the home. It’s not the perfect arrangement, I’ll admit, and as Riley is not in childcare he does watch too much television on the days I need to get stuff done. I own that.
So is this phase he’s going through my fault?
And this is why I’m putting it out there. I’m tired of feeling silenced. I’m tired of feeling isolated and being belittled. I’m tired of not having answers, and being called to answer.
But you know what? I’m just tired.
And we’ll get there with Riley. I’ll keep working on the situation. Because that’s what parents do.
