My son is at an age when transitions are especially fraught; if I try to leave the house for a few minutes, it's like a Verdi opera here. Garments are shredded; apples are thrown to the floor.
I think Josh would be clingy in the best of circumstances, but because he has a speech delay, his tantrums have a special force. There are two layers: (1) I don't want you to go and (2) I'm furious because I can't explicitly tell you I don't want you to go.
I get this. I, too, hate transitions. I've eaten Life-with-berries every morning, almost without exception, every week, every month, every year, since my twenties. For a long while, I visited an Italian restaurant every Monday, and the waiters became so irked by my rigid ordering style, they once surrounded my table and literally demanded that I choose something new. I resisted. A ritual is so much more soothing than a transition.
For Josh, there's one thing I've learned to say: "I'm leaving to do some chores now. Your job is to be a good boy and listen to the sitter. Follow her instructions for what to do."
Everyone has a "job": This idea comes from Frances the Badger ("Bedtime for Frances"). And I noticed, in Tomie de Paola's "The Baby Sister," Tomie's mom corners the recalcitrant Tomie and says, "You need to listen to your grandmother. That's how you can help me. I will be home soon."
It's unclear what Josh processes--at least at times. But, the other day, I returned home to good news from the sitter: "Your son only cried for two minutes. Then, he took me by the hand, led me upstairs, and showed me the crib that I needed to put him in."
Comments
Post a Comment