The Consequences of Caving

Posting all of these old blogs about my little Kellen, or 'Special K' as he is often affectionately referred to, I got to thinking about all of the phases we've gone through in his 6 years of life. Such a short time to do so much, but he seems to be the master at really packing life in where he can. Good for him? Sometimes. Good for me? Not so much. (Honestly, every week or two I check my head for the gray hairs I keep expecting to find - not because i'm heading over the hill - but from sheer stress. To my utter amazement, I still have yet to be christened by that milestone.)

Believe it or not, I'd actually forgotten the fecal fetish. Let's take a moment and really think about that. I'd FORGOTTEN my young son's predilection for diaper diving. I'd completely BLOCKED the feelings associated with finding one's young genetic carrier smeared from head to toe in his own excrement. (For those of you new to this blog, you can find the expanded version of that particular stage here.) That must give you an inkling of just how on my toes he keeps me.

K has Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (among other things). When I tell people this, they just smile and nod and tell me that all kids have their "quirks" and things they focus on. Oh ho HO they really have no clue. That sort of response usually launches me into the, "Oh no. You don't understand..." And then I come out with some of my earliest hell. That when he was 18 months old, before he had hardly any words at all, he used to walk around every morning signing to me that he needed his: boots (rubber), jeans, hat, gloves, screwdriver and keys. And if I could not locate one of these essential things, the day could not start. He would follow me around screaming for the missing item (usually the keys or screwdriver as he was want to lay them down wherever he may have been - woods, dirt, in some obscure little box hidden in the house) until I could retrieve them for him. Sometimes this would last hours until his daily uniform was complete.

For a time, he would wear nothing but the same pair of jeans, boots and shirt. I mean, identical. He literally had 5 of the same shirts and jeans in his drawer so that his uniform could at least be clean every day. 95 degrees or 15 degrees, he wore the same jeans, rubber boots and long sleeved shirt. That quickly morphed into a pajama obsession which pinnacled in the summer of our first real family vacation to Washington D.C. (oh, but that is a different blog unto itself). There was the mailbox obsession, the tractor obsession, the dirtbike obsession, the helmet obsession, the fire obsession (oh, give me time)... I know there are more and if I really sit and force myself to relive the experiences I will probably just cry trying to list them all. That should suffice enough to give you the big picture for now without completely throwing me into a state of depression.

And of course, there is food. His entire life, food has been an overriding theme. Just to type this produces in me a rapid pulse, tightness in the neck and forehead (explaining the overabundance of premature forehead wrinkling, I should say), and a hot flush throughout my body as my blood pressure involuntarily shoots up. Or perhaps that could be because he's sitting beside me over and over begging for something I bought for him last night at the grocery to eat for lunch today.

You've seen the padlocks. Or, if you have not, stop, check out Adventures in Refrigeration and then come back here. My beautiful little K has the most infuriating inability to wait for anything, especially if it has to do with food. "I'm hungry" have become two of the most dreaded words in the English language to me. I'd rather hear, "I hate you!" screamed with passion at me at the top of his lungs than to hear him utter those other words. Because I know what is coming. 20 minutes of food negotiation, usually with a litany of impossible requests met with steadfast denial. Let me tell you, it is impossible to negotiate food with a 6 year-old boy in the throes of OCD hell. And if it so happens that I have made a trip to the grocery and purchased a favorite food, I will not hear the end of it until it is conumed and out of our lives. One night I made the mistake of purchasing hoagies for the kids to eat the next evening. What can I say? I was in a hurry, the kids were, no doubt, eating me alive with their demands and I caved. I'm alone with my homeschooled kids for 5 days a week without cease. What can I say? I'm weak. Sometimes I just need peace, any way I can get it. So I caved. And got the hoagies.

In the car, on the way home:

"We eat hogies tonight?"
"No. We already had dinner. They are for dinner tomorrow night."
"But I hungee now." (Did I mention he has speech and language disorders, too?)
"Then you can have a snack. The hoagies are for tomorrow."

10 minutes later:

"But I wanna eat hoagies. I hungeeeeeeeeeeee."
"No Kellen, the hoagies are for tomorrow. NOT TONIGHT."
"We eat hoagies tomommow?"
"Yes, Kellen."

5 minutes later:

"Tomommow we eat hoagies?"
"Yes, Kellen."
"And I eat my hoagie tomommow dinner?"
"Yes, Kellen."

And for the remainder of the trip home (a 45 minute drive if I'm unlucky and unable to pass all the slow drivers)and up until bedtime, some variation on these exchanges will occur about every 5 minutes. Assurances that the hoagie will be there tomorrow night are required upon bedtime tuck-in. A kiss, a hug, and a "Yes, Kellen, you get your hoagie tomorrow night for dinner."

1.5 hours after bedtime:

"Mommy? I STAHHHHVED! I have my hoagie PEASE?????"
"DAMMIT NO YOU MAY NOT HAVE YOUR HOAGIE STOP ASKING AND GO. TO. SLEEP!"

4 a.m.

"I hungee. I have my hoagie now?"
"GO TO SLEEP Kellen!"

Silence.

And a whimper. "But I hungeeeeeeeee. I have my hoagie now I no be hungee."

Ahhhhh, the negotiation. Followed rapidly by the smackdown.

"If you don't go to sleep RIGHT NOW I am going down and feeding your hoagie to the dogs and then you won't even have it tomorrow night." That should do it.

"Gahhhhhhhhhh!" he growls in a huff and I feel him roll over. Then, blessedly, silence. Usually it takes me a good hour to get the blood pressure to return to normal so that I might sleep again.

7:30 a.m.

"I have my hoagie bekfast?"
"NO KELLEN YOU MAY NOT HAVE YOUR HOAGIE FOR BREAKFAST! IF YOU ASK ME AGAIN I'M GOING TO STOMP UP AND DOWN ON YOUR HOAGIE AND LET THE ROACHES EAT IT!"

9:00 a.m.

"Is it dinner time now I have my hoagie???"
"OH GOD HELP ME NO YOU CAN'T HAVE YOUR DAMN HOAGIE!!!!"

11:15 a.m.

"I eat my hoagie dis time?"
"JESUS CHRIST EAT YOUR DAMN HOAGIE I DON'T CARE YOU AREN'T EATING ANYTHING EVER AGAIN AND I'M NEVER BUYING YOU ANOTHER HOAGIE EVER!!!!"

Ok. So I probably don't handle it as well as I should. If it is a Monday when something like this occurs I can usually go for many many hours, if not all day, before resorting to empty threats. If it happens to occur on a Thursday, after 4 days alone with them, it will probably sound more like the above exchange. Or I may just pull out the duct tape and chase him around like a lunatic. Depends on the week.

Sometimes, it is ramen, or a can of Chef Boyardee. Sometimes it is some special sweet treat. Often, it is the prized hoagie. Whatever it may be, each time I swear I will never put myself in this position again, but then I think how awful it would be to never experience anything special as a kid and I take pity. This morning, as he begs for last night's grocery score (a little lunchbox from the deli with a turkey sandwich, cheese stick, little bag of chips, apple and a juice box - it is the little things in life I suppose) I am falling somewhere inbetween Patience of a Saint and Call Social Services, and cursing my weakness. For those of you who have ever wished for Friday, you have no idea.