Skip to main content

My Son Josh

 My son is a gifted mimic; one thing he does particularly well is the passive-aggressive tone that adults use when they're making veiled threats. You've heard this tone; it has a kind of exaggerated calmness, a sense of briskness. "Okay, then. I guess we're just not going to go out for ice cream today...."


It's a tone that is borrowed from Taylor Swift's "Look What You Made Me Do."

Josh uses this tone to taunt his sister, though his vocabulary is still somewhat limited: "Okay. So be mean then. So I guess you are not a nice girl."

Susie--who is so bright in so many settings--nevertheless cannot outwit Josh in the game. She cannot rise above. She wails in sorrow; she drowns in the unfairness. Because she firmly believes that she is a nice girl.

Usually, these scenes occur only at home--while Josh remains angelic at school. But, last week, Josh was constipated, and the discomfort caused him to antagonize his classmates. And I understand this. If I am physically unwell, I am not "my best self."

When the dam broke, when the constipation ended, I was summoned from a tutoring session to field questions. The ABA therapist wondered if I'd like to just burn or shred the soiled clothing. I am working on saying the following: "Do not call me about this. Make your own decision." (When the social counselor from school wrote to complain about Josh's atypical rudeness, I was advised to clap my hands in excitement. It sounds like Josh could use a bit of social counseling. What a terrific opportunity for you to do your job!)

I'm pleased that the storm at school has settled, but elsewhere, life feels like Whac-a-Mole. There is the ongoing fraternal/sororal conflict. The fact that Josh likes to visit public places--then shout, quite loudly, "FUCK!" The recent attempt to strip naked on a sidewalk in New Brunswick....

"If your child were docile and obedient," says one expert, "you actually wouldn't like that. Our culture rewards those who are bold, those who think outside the box...."

I nod in a non-committal way. Sure! I would *miss* the emails from the school, if they weren't arriving on the hour. I'm *certain* that this is true....Let's just *go* with it....
















Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more

My Favorite Pop Song

  One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...."  I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...
Post a Comment
Read more