Pre-Teen bliss

Let the door slamming begin.

I keep finding myself muttering, "Really? Already?" But it's the only explanation I can fathom for the new level of drama and indignation that seems to pour from my almost 11 year old boy.  He is a wonderful person, and I adore him, but, wow.
Most of the conflict currently revolves around 'being right'.  This is no shocker, I still struggle with this myself.  Surely that is why it drives me crazy when I see the same self certitude in my offspring... it is the things that are most like you, that make you crazy, yes?  My best friend is thoroughly entertained by our bouts-- she is sure that parents are intentionally gifted with children that can push their button like no other.  That there is some sort of an evolutionary benefit for such button pushing.
My husband sees the behavior too.  Recognizes it's an issue, but doesn't struggle like me because he is so much more directive in his parenting.  He doesn't have a routine of talking things out with the kids.  If they do something wrong he tells them, explains the punishment, and that's it.  Rarely is there any discussion.  With me it's a whole other story.
I have always talked things out- especially with my big guy.  He expects dialogue.  He knows that I like to talk things out, that I believe in getting to the bottom of an issue, and so he drags me in.  But, this is not a conversation with a conclusion, it is an irrational and circular argument.  It comes from the emotion of wanting to be right and knowing that you aren't, and that, my friends, is a mean and ugly place.  In any given encounter there are, inevitably, lots of tears and hitting of pillows, or kicking of snow piles... venting in the most physical way he can without crossing the line of acceptability.  The verbal formula is simple:  If I say, "You are not listening to my words."  His reply would be, "YOU'RE not listening to MY words!"  Surprisingly, this works with almost any sentence.  

Today's battle blazed on the walk home from the library.  Our backpack packed with books, a few movies and the Muzzy language tapes that R is currently obsessed with.  K started to wander across the street and I called him back sternly.  I was concerned that his careless wandering across the street would register in the mind of R, his four year old brother.  In his mind, I was speaking sternly to him for no particular reason.  He leapt for my jugular.  In moments we were rolling down the sidewalk- teeth gnashing.  By the time we got home, he flew up to his room and slammed the door.  An hour later I went to bring him his new library books and offer him some lunch and found him laying against the door to keep me out.  An hour after that he finally crept into my room to talk.  An hour after that he crawled into my arms and let me hug him.  Assuring him that this would pass, to which he replied, "It doesn't feel like it will pass ever."  "It will", I said, "and twenty five years from now, you'll find yourself holding your 10 year old son or daughter as they cry about the same things."  He has finally wiped the tears and snot from his face and headed down stairs for a late lunch.  I am exhausted.

At the end of the OWL class at our UU church a few weeks back, the DRE (Director of Religious Education) handed out this poem.  I have it taped to my mirror.  Somehow knowing that this is a shared experience helps you get through it.  I know that's true for me, but I suspect it's also true for my son-- even more true, perhaps...

"There is Something I Don't Know"  by R.D Lang

There is something I don't know

That I am supposed to know.

I don't know what it is I don't know, 

And yet am supposed to know.

And I feel I look stupid

If I seem both not to know

And not to know what it is I don't know.

Therefore, I pretend I know it.

This is nerve-wracking

Since I don't know what I must pretend

To know

Therefore, I pretend to know everything.

I feel you know what I am supposed to know

But you can't tell me what it is

Because you don't know what I don't know

What it is.

You may know what I don't know, but not

That I don't know it.

And I can't tell you. 

So you will have to tell me everything.