How do I ensure my son does not end up a juvenile delinquent?

If John Hughes were casting the biopic of my 2 year-old-son, I firmly believe, and am somewhat embarrassed to admit, he’d be played by Judd Nelson (John Bender), the juvenile delinquent from The Breakfast Club.

This past week I picked my son up from daycare only to hear that he had been throwing sand at other kids, shoving them, and at naptime, chose to stand up, pull down his diaper, and pee on his nap mat (anyone see Tom Hanks in A League of Their Own? The peeing scene in which Madonna comments on is what I’m picturing…). Had he made fun of Brian (Anthony Michael Hall’s character) for eating “PB and J with the crust cut off” this vignette would’ve been complete. My son is that kid at preschool.

Here’s the thing: I can’t have my son be that kid; I’m a teacher. This will not fly. I relayed this story to one of my closest friends at work. He listened, recognizing the seriousness, the severity of my words, how much is riding on what happens next in my son’s life. And, with that, he told me the story of the time his son (now a successful, attractive, well adjusted, young man) called another student a mother***** on the playground. Brilliant. Obvious to anyone who has children, my coworker’s son used that term because he had heard his father say this time and time again. This is no one’s fault, really.

Now, had my son told the other students in his class to go f*** themselves for some egregious error they had made, I’d recognize that as being completely my fault. That, in all honesty, I may have said that at some point in my child’s existence, wondered at some point, when my husband was going to take me up on that offer. Mea culpa. But, that’s not what happened. And, my son doesn’t see people shoving or hitting each other in his home, so what the hell?

I listened with horror as his teachers told me they had reprimanded my son by telling him this action (his shoving, throwing sand, peeing standing upright over his mattress) makes them sad. Sad? Really? That’s it? I’m humiliated. I went home and immediately told his Nonni, my mother, who insisted (love the Italian in her) that it was obviously some other kid’s fault (and we should place a horse’s head in that kid’s bed…), and my son was just sticking up for himself (does this still include the peeing on his own bed at nap time?) I beg to differ. So, my quandary is, how do I ensure that my son does not end up a criminal? Some suggestions…

1.     Stop swearing in front of my son. For the most part, I’ve done this. However, there is the occasional under my breath/ loud enough for myself to hear telling someone around me where they can kiss me if they have the time…

2.     Try to make my son believe that my tattoos (though hidden from view) are drawn in, can be erased, and were the worst mistakes of my life.

3.     Make him see that fast cars, fast money and fast women have no place in his life. (But all seem so easy…)

4.      Never buy him a red plaid cut off shirt. Ever.

5.     Remind him that I love him, and use this guilt for the rest of his life.

Om Namah Shiva

           

Do you remember that scene from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom where the Hindu priest is pulling a man’s heart straight from his chest while chanting, “Om namah shiva” - sounds like “Om nom shivai”, and later on he tries to do the same to Indi only to fall to his own death? That happened to me this week; minus the Hindu priest, or an incredibly built Harrison Ford nearly shirtless on a bridge, or the fall to a fiery or crocodiled pit of death. My heart was figuratively ripped out of my chest when I dropped off my son at daycare for the first time.

Granted, I tell my high school students on day one of my course that I’m a miracle of modern science because I have no heart; that if they come to me with their ‘tugging at my heartstring stories’ of how their homework is lost, they can just sell that batch of crazy somewhere else because I’m not buying. I figured this ability to become ‘heartless’ when needed would prove useful in this new endeavor with my child; this week, I was proven wrong.

My son has had the privilege of having my sister nanny him in his home the past two years. I’ve taken this for granted, and now realize after my sister’s decision to stop helping rear my child to find her own way in life, and my parents’ out and out refusal to take him until he’s 18 (selfish much?), that I had it pretty good. For the first time in his life, my son is out of the comfort of his home, and in a pre-school atmosphere. This is the most difficult thing I’ve done in my life.

Day one of this endeavor went well, a little too well. I dropped my son off expecting tears, pleas for me to stay, lingering goodbyes, and was met with my son practically throwing up a peace sign and telling me not to let the door hit me on the way out homeslice (do people say that anymore? Did they ever?); I was pissed. I became determined that my son would be more upset the next time I dropped him off (sick, I know). I had plans of spending the rest of the day with him only so that he would miss me more when I dropped him off day two. How could he nonchalantly say goodbye to me, not even noticing while I waited by the window (for 30 minutes) watching what he was doing, hoping he would look up, notice me gone, and cry out?  

Be careful what you wish for.

This morning my son held onto me with a vice grip akin to Lindsay Lohan holding a water bottle disguising her vodka at a party she hasn't been invited to. I contemplated not going to work. I started making empty promises which, at the time, I actually believed; I’ll quit my job, I’ll stay home with you, call in sick for the rest of the year, etc. etc. etc. While his sweet, grandmotherly teacher gently took my son from my arms assuring me this would all be okay, I wanted to grab him and run.

Does this get easier?

Things I didn’t think I’d have the stomach to handle until I became a Mom

1.     Vomit. Last night was a scene straight from the Exorcist; I was just waiting for my son’s head to spin around. We had a fairly normal day, but he over did it on the cereal bars right before bed. Look, I’ve seen my fair share of vomit. I’ve held back the hair of friends, of coworkers, and thrown my own pony back to do some ‘cleansing’ after a night gone awry, but my God. Yes, it was New Year’s Eve, but I don’t party that hard anymore. My son was in bed by 9:30pm, and why the hell do clubs stay open until 2am anyway? Who still looks good at that hour? (How old am I? Did I really just write that?) Regardless, as we were up the stairs off to bed, my son decided to christen the evening and the stairs with his own parting gift for 2011.

2.     Diapers. For human beings on the scale of my son, should they really be that bad? My son weights 30+ lbs, and he produces things that look reminiscent of the sick triceratops’ droppings from Jurassic Park, is this healthy? And why, when I’m attempting to change his diaper does he fight me? If anyone is getting the short end of the stick here, it’s me. Shouldn’t he be thankful? Buying me flowers after we’re done? Or at the least a drink??

3.     Ultimatums. I am a strong, confident woman, why do I give my son these? My latest favorite is, “Oh, okay, you’re not going to listen to me? Do you want me to get your papa?!” My son doesn’t take me seriously (like my students, and the rest of the world), so I stoop to this level, am I proud of that? No. But, it gets me through the day. My son’s papa is my father, his grandfather, a man who at 5’10” is a teddy bear and a whiz with children. Is he always nearby? No. Does my son know that? Absolutely not.

4.     Tantrums. What could possibly be so wrong in my son’s life that he chooses to lay down on the floor, throw his head back and scream? You know what? I’m going to try this at my job. The next time I disagree with a superior, or have had it with a student, I’m going to lay my head on the ground and cry. We’ll see how well that works.

5.     And, I understand that my son is only two, but looking forward… why do male high school students feel the need to bathe in Axe? It’s awful. Will my son do this? Is it hormonal? I have vague memories of my older brother getting ready for his junior high dances by showering in Draakar Noir; that evil black bottle that could grow hair on a woman’s chest… does someone tell them to do this?