Day Six…and the closest we’ve been to a “crisis”

J has a nasty habit of expecting ME to change from street clothes to comfy clothes as soon as we get home from running errands.  This stunt he tried to pull on me today when we got back from the usual Saturday morning rounds of Farmers’ Market, grocery store, etc.

I was wearing a nicer blouse I bought online and didn’t want to get it dirty (we were having Mexican for lunch and, surprise!!!!, I’m sloppy when it comes to Mexican food) so I had every intention of changing.  J, however, was being pushy, and I was NOT going for it…

We had a minor tiff.  He wanted me to change and I was trying to explain to him that I would, but only once I’d opened his bottle of soda with the bottle opener I was retrieving from the drawer.  My son, however, was hell-bent on being melodramatic and decided to hit his head and punch his thigh…

Guess, please, who was NOT going for that???  ME!!!!  I said HEY quite loudly and told to get the ice for his soda and pipe the heck down…NOW!!!!!

J’s eyes opened quite widely and I turned around and went to change my clothes.  He complained to Dada who, quite frankly, was not having any of it either, and promptly got sent to change into his at-home clothes.  Boy, did he whine throughout the whole thing.  I simply went into our room, changed into shorts and a t-shirt, and found my way back to the dining room where I sat waiting for J to return.

Jolly as the Green Giant, my son bounced down the stairs and said THANK YOU.  I said SIT DOWN.  J sat across from me, looking slightly offended and annoyed, but I have learned the difference between what he can and cannot control behavior-wise (thank you, Temple Grandin, for the insight,) and I told him to EAT.  J tried to jump on his quesadilla like a feral cat suddenly faced with a meal that didn’t come from a trash can.  STOP!  Mouth full of tortilla and cheese, J looked at me, stunned.

ONE…(whoa daba daba is what I say in my head instead of one Mississippi)

ONE…

TWO…TWO…(no chance for a whoa daba daba…so I took a deep breath)

TWO!  (whoa…daba…da…ba)  J looked at me with narrowed eyes and allowed me to go as slowly as I wanted to, the feral cat receding into the background, knowing it is liked and Soft Kitty, Warm Kitty, Little Ball of Fur is what is called for…

TWO…

THREE…(whoa…daba…daba…I sped up again)

THREE…

FOUR (whoa daba…daba…and a little more)

FOUR…

FIVE (whoa daba daba)

FIVE…

AND EAT…

And so he ate, counting like the ace that he is, knowing that I was NOT going to give in to pounding or yelling or any other type of emotional terrorism…

When he was done eating, a full ten minutes later, I told J to look at me, and I said (quite calmly) “I will come home and change my clothes, BUT only when I am done doing whatever it is I need to do.  Understand?”  J looked at me, at his plate, and then asked to change the schedule for the rest of the day…

THAT, my friends, is as close as J will come to saying YES, MA’AM.  I’ll take it.  I accept that I have to be concise and precise, and take no crap from him when it’s something that he can control…like his MANNERS!

He asked to do laundry.  He asked to go downstairs to the basement.  He has been sweet and nice since then.  Tonight I will remind him of how he cannot bully me or push me around, but I know that it will take more than ONE or TWO or even TEN reminders.

But if that’s as close as we’re going to get to a tantrum with less medication, I’ll take it.  I’ll take it, and I’ll feel very lucky.  After all, when I think of how very different these disagreements used to be a few years ago, a couple of thunks to the head and some thigh-punching are nothing in comparison…

And on to day seven…

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