Sugar and Salt

April is Child Abuse Prevention month. When I worked at the Family Resource Center of Iowa County in Wisconsin, we tied blue ribbons on the tree in front of the county court house, one for each reported case of child abuse or neglect. The last year I was there, we had to cut over 200 strips. Where were my allegiances as I attached bows to the branches? With both the children and their over-stressed parents.

I haven’t forgotten those moments of my early motherhood, feeling overwhelmed and exhausted when too many responsibilities and not enough support pushed me to the brink. What kept me from stepping over the line? I was lucky enough to be born into a family with competent parenting skills but realized early on that my instincts had limitations. I also recognized that in spite of my teaching experience, I knew very little about how best to parent my own children.

I read dozens of child development books, discussed options with other parents in support groups, and sought counseling from teachers and friends. I stopped worrying about what everyone else thought about my parenting skills or my children and focused on developing good coping mechanisms. I learned how to set limits and establish appropriate consequences. I took time outs for myself, asked for support from family and friends, gave myself days off and made my expectations clear. Most importantly, I developed a set of responses that I could implement before I reached code blue. Because no matter how challenging a child’s behavior might be, it’s the parent who is ultimately responsible for what transpires and for the quality of the relationship that evolves.

Here's a favorite story from my very early years as a mom.

Sugar and Salt

We three enter a neighborhood Chinese restaurant, enjoying a spring afternoon.  My swollen stomach reaches the table and perspiration rings my face. Our son Matt, all ripply and moist, climbs into the toddler chair perched next to his dad.  I sit across from them piling our jackets and my purse in the space next to me.  We select a plate lunch special with an order of fried rice and an extra plate to share. 

Matt plays with the packets of sugar and the salt shaker, sprinkling the table.  We smile, chat and wait.  The plastic cushions of the booth snap with each kick of Matt’s foot.  I catch the soy sauce jar before it sprays brown dots on his red white and blue shirt.  Just as he is about to maneuver his way under the table, the waitress serves our lunch in a random fashion.  Matt is the first to notice the “plate special” in front of his chest.  I reach across the table and pull the plates of food towards me to divide between the three of us. 

Matt screams, “Mine!” as he grabs for the chicken chow mein. 

Gravy sloshes on the table as I grab a now thrashing, then flailing, head bobbing, crazy baby.  I toddle to the front door protecting my protruding belly and bony shins.  Once outside, I watch Matt kick his heart out in the steamy sunshine, while my own heart shrinks into a baseball.  He stops to breathe and I believe the fury is over.  Not so.  I brace myself against the cement block wall next to the front door.  My neck prickles as I stare at nothing over the heads of strangers strolling past, clucking their tongues and twisting their necks, grimaces and smiles fastened to their faces.  My dress is now sticking to my back as I fold my arms across my chest and shift my balance in silent protest against Matthew’s shrieks.  Finally a whimper and then hiccups. 

Speckles of dirt and sweat smear his face, palms and knees.  I hoist him onto my left hipbone, bouncing his bottom firmly into position, my arm strangling his waist as I march to the bathroom for sponge baths.  Matt’s arms and legs hang limp like a Raggedy-Andy doll.  The mantra in my head repeats, “This is normal two year old behavior that will end.  I do too love this baby.  He is not a monster.”   In the mirror I see a face streaked with mascara and blush as I splash water and soap on Matt’s cheeks and arms.  I take some deep breaths and see the lines on my forehead relax.  We walk back to the table together holding hands.

Seated once again at the table, I face Steve who is slumped in his chair, staring at the congealed food.  We exchange glances as he pats his toddler’s head and helps him sit comfortably in his chair.   

    

Matthew touches the edge of the “special” and offers a meek, “Mine?”

I say once again, eyes closed, heart covered with prickly pear, “No, we are going to share” and wait for Matt’s response.