Hitting

I'm not a violent person. I've never been involved in a physical fight in my life. Okay, there was that one time in 7th grade when I got slapped across the face by some 8th graders in a breakfast joint and then when some of the 9th graders in my Tae Kwon Do club heard about it, they stood up for me and scared those 8th graders. But I never laid a hand (or foot 'cause it's TKD) on any of them. Oh, and there was another time when one of my classmates got beaten up in a parking lot by a group of girls from another school for no reason at all (I think it's because some boys from the same school were cheering them on). A couple of days later, a few friends and I skipped the last class and went to that school. We wanted to get there in time to take them down on their way home. Unfortunately, we got there at the cleaning time at that school. Everyone was up and around; the school was bustling with laughter and energy. As students of a all-girl high school, we had no idea what hormone-driven teenage boys were like. The moment we were spotted by some boys who were up on the window sills on the third floor, we became a bunch of walking bananas right outside the monkeys cage. Needless to say, we never retaliated what those girls did to my classmate. We never even made it to the front gate of that school before the disciplinary soldier/teacher brought us to his office and called our school.

All this should give you an idea how inexperienced I am when it comes to dealing with physical violence. 

Not in a million years have I thought one day I would have to deal with my own child using physical violence as a way to express emotions. I didn't even think children would hit their parents. Now I feel like that 16-year-old girl who watched in disbelief how wild and rambunctious boys could be, only this time, I'm a middle-aged woman and it's my own son (and maybe daughter too in two and a half years). 

It brings out the worst in me when Kai purposely hits me. It instantly makes my blood boil because of all the mixed emotions rushing through my veins. Nothing else infuriates, saddens, worries, and scares me more. Even though I would never do it, but sometimes I'm so angry I want to hit him back. Give him a taste of his own medicine and see how he likes it. But I can't. I can't  meet his violent behavior with violence. This is not the cards table: "I see your hitting on the arms and raise you to hitting across the face."

Other times, I feel like unleashing the only-child within me and give him an earful of "How dare you hit me? Don't you know even your great grandparents and grandparent couldn't raise their voices with me?" I've also considered topping it off with a gigantic guilt trip: "I'm your mother! I carried you inside me for 10 months. I lay on the surgery table and had doctor cut me open to bring you to this world. You should adore me and love me unconditionally." But I can't. I hate melodrama or playing the victim. I also have to be careful not to let my mouth take over the mind because, let's face it, Kai would be more likely to hear all the colorful words I would be using and add them to his own lexical repertoire. 

Then there are times I play the Internet-certified Early Childhood Ed expert. When Kai hits me, I pretend to be completely undeterred and go on as if nothing has happened and, if all the ECE stuff is right, "the child should see that he's not getting a reaction (which is what s/he wants) and stop the undesirable behavior." Well, to that I say, "Bullshit!" My son sees that he's not getting a reaction so he keeps trying until he gets one. What can I say? If there is one, I guess the silver lining is that now we know he's one determined and persistent little sh-, I mean, bugger!

Finally... the fears. What if he's hitting other children at the daycare? A year ago, I worried about sweet Kaikai being bullied ; now my Kai (as my 2-year-old often corrects me, "My name is Kai, not Kaikai, mommy.") might be the kid their children are crying about at home. What if Kai grows up to be a violent person? I recently heard a story about a friend of a friend whose adopted son had to be sent away to some correction agency in the States because he beat the crap out of his mom and the BC welfare system does not cover the kind of care he needs. Gasp! What if Kai tries to hit me or his dad when he's bigger than us? I know, I know! The last two scenarios are quite unlikely, especially if we do our jobs right right now. 

After reading numerous articles on child psych and parenting websites, it seems that we're doing the right things: 

- nobody demonstrates violent behavior in the child's immediate environments,

- the child's feelings are addressed, discussed, and taken seriously,

- the child's undesirable behavior is corrected right after it is demonstrated,

- parents help the child identify and label feels,

- parents provide alternatives to redirect the child's attention or energy,

- parents discuss how violent behavior affects others in order to help the child develop empathy, and 

- parents communicate clearly to the child that violent behavior will never be tolerated and set up appropriate consequences for such behavior.

Bill said being mad at a toddler is like being mad with the weather. It's nobody's fault, and there's no point getting all worked up. Well, however we choose to weather this toddler storm, one thing for certain is that we have to equip him with the correct tools to tame that hormone-driven beast inside him -- be it the language to adequately express how he feels or, as my mom taught me to hit the pillow, different ways to get his frustration or anger out. 

I myself need to be more empathetic and patient. If toddlerhood is anything like adolescence and I remember how messed up I felt in adolescence, it's a bumpy emotional roller coaster ride that the riders have very little control. Maybe instead of hanging onto the "Where's my sweet little baby boy", I'll try seeing him as a mental patient (that doesn't sound good, but it may work) or a cat on catnip. That way, at least I'll get a bit of comic relief out of this otherwise painfully dreadful phase of growing up.