I have a little boy. He’s a beautiful child who can be sensitive to others, empathetic and caring. He also can’t control his anger and lashes out. He doesn’t know how to control his impulses, so when he does lash out, he’s violent. I’m the mother of the child who gets the report from the teacher at the end of the day about how my child hurt another. How my child had multiple time outs. How my child can’t control himself. It’s breaking my heart.
I’m sharing this because it’s so easy to judge a child and his parent. It’s easy to ignore us in the hallway. It’s especially easy to dislike the family because of the actions of one little boy. But I’d like you to know, we’re not like that. He’s not like that. And yet, he is. He’s intuitive. He knows when others are hurting. He runs for the bandages when his brother falls and he pats a grandparent gently after surgery. He has kindness and sensitivity.
And yet, he has rage. The smallest things can send him into a storm swirling with screaming, crying, throwing and even hitting and kicking. Those are the moments people see, and hear, the most. Those are the moments the teacher reports to me at pick-up. Those are the moments that define my little boy.
As a parent, it’s maddening. I’m embarrassed by his behavior because I know I’ve taught him better. I’m self-conscious because I know the other parents are silently judging me. I’m angry at him for behaving like this. I feel guilty for having these emotions about my son, my little boy. And I’m furious with myself for feeling all these feelings. If you’re the parent of one of the children he’s hurt, I’m sorry. You’re livid and rightly so. But please don’t be angry for the wrong reasons. Be angry that your child was hurt, be angry at the behavior, but try not to be angry at him. You wouldn’t be upset with a child who has diabetes and refuses to eat a cupcake. My little boy deserves that much.
Also, be angry alongside me. Be angry that behavioral problems are still spoken about in hushed tones. Be angry that I’ll get my little boy help under the cloak of silence, like he’s a criminal, because I don’t want people to judge him for the rest of his life. Be angry that before he’s even 5, he’ll have experienced all this because so many grown-ups see him as a “problem.” He’s my son. My little boy. He worries that a granola bar isn’t healthy enough for my lunch and packs toys in my work bag so I can play while I’m gone. It’s moments like those that give me hope that this is just a tangled moment in time that years from now offers no persuasion on how he is defined as a man, but rather shows the potential strength in my future adult son.
For now, I’ll hold his hand and hug him when the rage subsides. I’ll get him the help he needs, and if necessary, the help I need, to get him through this—because we will get through this. All of us. Together.
