Hi. My name is Melody and I don’t like my kid. There. I said it. And, it’s the truth. Now, to be clear about another thing… I love my kid. I could never stop loving him. I love him from the top of his horrible bed head, to the tips of his disgusting, unwashed big toe. A big toe that, by the way, could stand to be clipped once in awhile. But, no. I do not like him.
Today, I walked into a new therapist’s office ready to sugar coat my disdain for the fruit of mine and my husband’s loins. But, for once I didn’t feel the need to. What I had finally found was a place where I could not only say that out loud but, MEAN IT. For once, I didn’t have to laugh it off as a bad joke at an inopportune time. And, after reading the two page synopsis of his behaviors, my behaviors, actions taken and so forth, I got the look of, “Oh, you poor girl”.
On April 19, 2013, I became a full time, stay at home mom. I was ready to tackle it all. The PTA, the annual school Bingo night, the inevitable fundraiser. Oh, yes. I AM that mom. Wait… No. No I am not. I don’t even like kids. In fact, if the truth be completely told, my first two kids were birth control babies. Two DIFFERENT kinds of birth control. I never intended to give birth. Fuck, my mother can even tell you that as a little girl I said “NO BABIES”. But, a higher power had other plans and so here I am. Three boys in.
Oh, yeah. I almost forgot. The part about not liking my kid. My kid is also ADHD (Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, for those of you living under a rock.) diagnosed and what I suspect to be a highly functioning Aspergers case as well as the grand possibility of ODD. (Oppositional Defiance Disorder) He’s severely fucked. And, I blame myself. I come from a long line of craziness.
It is a mental and physical struggle to deal with him at any and every given moment in the day. The only time of peace that I get is when he goes to school and after his aggravating ass is in the bed. (Which is a battle that I will save for another post.) Get up Evans. Get up Evans. Evans, I am going to pour ice water on your head. Evans, please get up. Imagine repeating this at least twenty times. Now, imagine those twenty+ times getting progressively louder until you are at a point that you fear the neighbor’s may call the authorities.
I don’t like my kid. I REALLY don’t like my kid. As I am typing this, my kid just hit his brother in the face with a shirt. My kid, is now in the corner. Seems to be an outdated practice, right? But, it’s the best alternative I have.
I am tired. I am mentally exhausted. My brain tries on a daily basis to remind my heart that I love this child. I adore this kid’s face and his personality. I love his terrible jokes and his really bad singing voice. I even love the way that he loves that annoying, “What Does the Fox Say” song. My kid is a good kid. He was just dealt a shitty hand of DNA. My kid is a smart kid. I just don’t get him.
Now, I am going to try and reach him. Again. I’m going to try and nail into his head WHY stealing and lying is not acceptable. I am going reiterate WHY bullying his brother is no different than bullying a kid in his class. And, I am AGAIN, going to try and deal with him calmly and make sure that no matter how much I dis-like him, that he remembers that I love him. Every perfect piece of him that, as I remind myself again of, outnumber the imperfect pieces that I would never change.
Now is later and you can thank me. Just as I thank those that reminded me this morning that there are so many other things that could be wrong. I woke up. My kids woke up. I didn’t get a phone call from the school and I was finally able to admit that, well…
I REALLY love my kid.