I will admit that for someone who is such a fuss-pot herself, I am remarkably intolerant of other people’s idiosyncrasies. However, in the hope of hurdling the ‘impasse’, I stoically resolved to tackle the rocky path of step-parent step-child bonding in order to forge a blended family like it says in the psychology books. Despite the seething, frustrated medusa-like creature that was raging within me (need...more...meditation ...time...), I really did want this situation to work.
Problems are always solved more easily when broken into bite-sized pieces. I thought about when the most likely ‘danger’ times were for a ruckus to breakout. Firstly there was shower time, room tidying time, bed time, homework time; nothing new here I guess, but defiance certainly took on a whole new meaning when this child was asked to do something he didn’t want to do. Wide berth was the term being screamed by the medusa voices in my head. So I thought, Ok, how about school lunches? This isn’t so much requesting the child to actually physically do something, but rather, participate in making a decision that would directly involve him. I recalled a wee tip from the days when I was parenting my own son, and offered the stepson two choices of sandwich topping (both of which were favourable to me), in order that he may feel empowered, valued and in control of his destiny. I generously asked if he would like marmite or jam on his sandwiches – knowing that (this week) these were his favourite toppings...peanut butter is soooo last month it would seem. As I mentally congratulate myself on how smoothly the morning is running, my stepson gets a pained look on his face as though I am suggesting he eat horse manure. After a few minutes of umming and ahhing, he proclaims how he really just has to have honey sandwiches today...or how about egg, no, no tomato and cheese...no, no...and on and on it goes! Damn, too early for a wine!
Now this incident may sound insignificant in and of itself BUT this type of mental torture day in day out, night in night out, seven days a week, four weeks a month, twelve months a year, causes me to feel limitless rage at the generations of ancestors responsible for this child. All the usual guidelines for positive parenting are out in the ether with flying pigs when it comes to my stepson. There isn’t a word in any language in the history of the world that does justice to his knack of being particularly difficult at (almost) every turn.
So, with things at a bit of a standstill, and the impasse still being like a white elephant in the room, I decided to look up the meaning of the word compromise.
1. Settle a depute by making concessions. Ok, I am still here and I haven’t committed any crime thus far. A concession.
2. Settlement reached by concessions on each side. Are there three sides (adults and child) or only two (adults) involved in our impasse? Things could get MORE complicated...oh give me strength!
3. Put in a dishonourable position. Seems we are already compromising...
Desperation began clawing at my mind; I felt no closer to constructively channelling my anger, I was experiencing only nano-sized inklings of affection toward my step-son and to top it off (remembering that it was too early for a wine...), I discovered that snacking throughout the day, say every three minutes, doesn’t alleviate stress. At precisely the time when I should have be delving into my untapped well of self control I was feeling the spinning top that had become my sanity, heading precariously toward the precipice.
No comments:
Post a Comment