I've tried for several weeks to find something positive to write about. I've tried taking some of Ian's outbursts and thinking of them in a comical way. I've tried looking at him when he's sleeping, hoping to dredge up some maternal love, but my bucket is dry and my patience withered. There's only one thing I want at this point: to inflict bodily harm--to give him a good taste of what it's like to be his mother.
During sacrament meeting yesterday, Ian decided that his matchbox cars needed to jump benches. And then he decided he should follow them. While the deacons passed the sacrament, he was running up the aisle, not caring about jostling water trays or glares from the bishopric. When I attempted to reign him in by taking away his toys, he tried head-butting me and started repeating, in his screeching voice, "I want it! I want it! I want it!"
"That's it!" I hissed in his ear. "You are going out!"
Which is what he wanted. I dragged him--none too gently--out into the foyer where I stuck him in a corner by the garbage can. Oops. My mistake. Shouldn't have put him by the trash. He tried pulling the liner out. I moved him to a different corner. He started jumping and banging the coat hangers together. I moved him again. He began to kick the walls with his shoes. I took his shoes away. He threw his socks at me so I kept those too. We were beginning to draw a crowd and all I wanted to do was gouge his eyes and cane him to death. Instead, I stuck him in an empty classroom informing him, "This is spirit prison. Good luck getting out," and then I shut the door. It was a relief not to see his face. He was safe from me and I was safe from him, not to mention he wasn't disturbing anyone. Until he decided to throw his body against the door. Over and over again.
You might be asking yourself why didn't I just take him home and put him in a time out? I didn't do it because that's what he wanted. He hates being at church so he's determined to make it miserable for everyone else. I was waiting for sacrament meeting to be over so that I could turn him over to the primary and he could be someone elses problem for the next two hours. Which is what I did. And then I went home for a time out.
This is what my life has been like since my last post. I don't know what is up with my kid, but he is an absolute menace. He screeches constantly like a two-year-old banshee, he trash talks everyone around him, he's violent and stubborn and obstinate and I can't think of one good thing to say about him.
At a birthday party last week, he loudly informed an overweight woman that she had a big butt. He said, "Hey, fatty! Get your big butt out of my face!" I was horrified. We don't talk that way in our home. Where was this coming from?
Tawni brought a friend home the other day. She was Asian. Ian took one look at her and said, "Hey, China! China, China!"
I've come to one conclusion. My kid is a shit. Plain and simple. One minute he explodes like diarrhea, and the next he's as stubborn as constipation. Sometimes he's messy and other times he slips right on by and you never see him until it's too late. He can be sneaky, hard, loose--but one thing is certain--his bad odor lingers long after he's left the room.
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