"Listen. Look at me. Look at me. Do this."
His breathing purposeful, deep, and slow. His eyes suddenly patient, his voice calm and steady, my own the opposite after many minutes of unsuccessful attempting.
I didn't want him to have to learn what he's learned. I never would have asked him to witness what he has, to be called the names he's been called, to stand in a drenching rainstorm in Augusta and listen to me be sworn at when I couldn't get her into a car, to wait for me, for minutes, for sometimes hours, to deal with someone else's problems, repeatedly, when he felt he had his own. I didn't mean to skip this many basketball games, baseball games, small road trips with him and his friends.
I didn't know I would ask him, at nine years old, to take a back seat to someone else whose needs seemed greater.
But I did that.
I feel guilty on a regular basis about what I have asked of both of my older kids. I know - of course I know - that giving is something we all should do more of, that patience and understanding are deep, satisfying, vital life skills, that putting someone else's needs over your own is a complicated gift.
(And I also know that all Moms feel guilty over most everything. Believe me, I'd tell you to stop feeling guilty RIGHT NOW if we were having coffee together, and I would wholeheartedly mean it!) ;)
On Friday after school, M got off the bus understanding that it was the day we'd leave for camping. Anxiety about nearly everything controls her almost each moment, and so one minute after she got off the bus, she was screaming at her brother, the dogs, and me, while I attempted to finish packing, manage a 10 week old puppy, a geriatric dog, and help my teenage son (who would've left ten hours ago if I could've pulled that off) make sure he had what he needed.
"I JUST WANT TO STAY HOME!"
"I NEVER WANT TO GO CAMPING EVER AGAIN!"
"JUST LEAVE ME HERE BY MYSELF!"
"I AM NOT GOING!"
"CAMPING IS STUPID!"
"THIS STUPID DOG IS CHEWING ALL MY STUFF!"
"I HATE CAMPING!"
Packing and trying to assure everything is ready is abhorrent to me under reasonable, peaceful circumstances, never mind the type where my heart rate is 175.
I said, for at least the sixth time, things like this, in my I-can-maintain-calm-even-though-it-is-very-loud-here voice, "Take a breath. It's going to be fun. Dad will meet us. We have all of our things. We will be safe."
She screamed, for at least the sixth time, "I AM NOT GOING! THIS IS
STUUUUUPPPIIIDDDDD!!!"
Conor, stone-faced, eyes narrowed, retreated to the living room, 13 years old, ready to begin this adventure hours ago, frustrated, irritated, but choosing not to engage and give anxiety another target.
Then I lost my patience, sent her angrily to her room so I could think, finished packing my car to the complete top, got both dogs in, and Conor and all his stuff in, and went back up to get her.
She screamed, cried, refused to walk.
I half carried her outside. I buckled her. She kicked my seat, growled and hissed at us, now entirely unhinged.
I turned around, furious and stressed, and spoke sternly and yelled that she had five seconds to STOP ACTING LIKE THIS.
Then Conor turned around, and held her eyes.
"Listen. Look at me. Look at me. Do this." His breathing purposeful, deep, and slow. His eyes suddenly patient, his voice calm and steady, my own the absolute opposite after all those minutes of trying to stay level in the chaos.
I drove.
She mirrored his breathing and he did this for about three minutes, without breaking eye contact, which often she cannot tolerate, but he read the moment.
She breathed with him, she settled, and he eventually looked out his own window.
Thirty minutes, and done.
The experience of my son suddenly handling what I could not anymore was startling, was unsettling, even.
I turned the radio on, kept my gaze straight ahead, let just one tear silently fall, and felt intense guilt, gratitude, and relief.
"Hey thanks."
"Yeah."