A Tiny Can of Whoopass

Look at these beautiful hands.

So tiny. So focused. So determined.

Here they are again. So busy. So creative. So beautiful.

I look at these hands everyday and revel in how entranced I am that the Papa and I helped make this tiny person. Everything about her is just so darn precious, and we pause frequently in this house to just stare at her.

And then THWACK.

Yup, she's done it again, and I'm absolutely mortified that my child - my sweet, precious peanut - has walloped another kid. Yes, my babe is the one who hits right now. (I say right now riding on faith that she will soon pass on this torch of brutality to one of her wee cohorts.) As I meet with friends and their little ones, my wee girl is the one who opens up her tiny can of whoopass and doles out the blows.

As I wrote in my last post, there were many things I felt sure of as an expectant first time mother. I really did believe that I would be the calm and nurturing Mama who would never have a child who hit. Violence is totally unacceptable in our home, so my kid simply won't hit. Right? I guess I didn't really account for the fact that Stella isn't me. (This has been, by far, the biggest and most shocking surprise of having a child.) Plus, she has the communication skills of a stunted caveman. As a result, I've spent the last two months trying to figure out how to help Stella understand that hitting is not okay. I've told her "no," I've explained to her that hitting hurts others and I've simply removed her from the situation to just avoid further wacks. While I work really hard to maintain my role as that calm and nurturing Mama, Stella is still struggling to figure out how express frustration, fatigue and anger.

Stella doesn't want to hurt other people. In fact, she's usually the first of her buddies to hug and kiss everyone. She actively seeks out affection and cuddles, so I'm confident that this spell of hitting isn't some diabolical true nature coming to light. Parents of older kids assure me that this is simply a normal developmental stage that will peeter out once she learns to communicate more clearly and manage her emotions. Okay. So it's all about her frustration level. I buy that.

But I must admit I've been calling upon all my elders and parenting books about this one lately because it's awful being the Mama of The Kid Who Hits. More specifically, it's awful watching my child feel so frustrated that she hurts someone else.

The first time this really happened totally shook me to the core as a new Mama. We were visiting our dear friends in California, a trip we'd eagerly anticipated. My best friend of twenty years had her first child, The Chickpea, ten weeks before I had Stella, and we've been over the moon at the thought of our girls growing up together. We figured six hundred miles was no barrier to raising our girls as buds.

The girls did remarkably well together, playing side by side as best they could. After all, they really don't know one another. But there was obvious potential for pallin' around, and it was great to see them interact. Of course, there were some obstacles. With great reason, the Chickpea was a bit out of sorts that this new kid was running around her house, touching all her toys. Who did this kid think she was? So The Chickpea spent the first three days of our visit trying to share but spending most of her time grabbing her toys, declaring them "Mine!"

As parents, the four of us understood the Chickpea's frustration and humored her as much as possible. Of course, the Papa and I were also increasingly aware of Stella's growing frustration. I swear she started off our weekend behaving very respectfully. She was careful and cautious with all of the Chickpea's toys and was not her usual gregarious self.

Of course, by the third night, Stella was done with Emily Post. Goodbye, Miss Manners. I want me some toys, and I want'em now.

Rather than drag this on, I'll cut to the chase. After being told "Mine!" for the umpteenth time, Stella basically walloped the Chickpea right on the forehead with a big ol' block. Yup, right between the eyes. We all saw it happening, and it was like one of those slow motion scenes from the Bionic Woman. There was nothing we could do but watch in slow motion and then react as time resumed to a breakneck toddler pace.

After explaining to her why hitting wasn't nice, the Papa simply removed her from the situation and played with her in a separate room for awhile. She had free reign over the toys and had the full attention of her Papa. Peace was restored and the girls survived. But I must admit that I felt mortified - on two levels. Mainly, I was just so embarrassed that my kid was the one who was aggressive. I felt like shouting "I'm SO sorry!" and demonstrating point by point how we never allow this kind of behavior at home. And then my sympathy kicked in. After my selfish instinct to cover my own Mama butt passed, I realized that Stella had been slowly growing more and more frustrated over the course of three days. She had shared and yielded until she'd had enough. And she popped. She totally blew her lid. And it took the form of a swift thwack to the Chickpea's head. Ugh. Multi-leveled, not-so-subtly nuanced ugh.

I knew our friends ultimately understood that Stella was simply acting out of frustration. But I can't help but admit that I felt crushed by the whole situation for a moment. I've really never felt more defensive or protective of anyone in my life. It was tough. The Chickpea felt hurt and confused, and we felt terrible about that. But Stella was beside herself with frustration, and I'd be a liar if I didn't feel like opening up my own can of Mama Bear whoopass to protect her. Both the Papa and I saw Stella's little face just crumple in a bright red mass of frustration right before she threw her punch, and it was one of the most painful expressions I've ever witnessed. And that's what really sucked about all this. I was so busy enjoying myself with my grown up friends, that I allowed my child to get to what must have felt to her like a point of no return.

The babes survived as did their parents, but the whole experience made me realize that Stella is going to do things over which I hold no control. Zilch. This is a tough one for a recovering control freak like myself. But like I said in my original Eating Crow post, it seems like everyone I talk to goes through stuff like this with their children. Hitting and biting, tantrum throwing and screaming- it's all part of the deal when you sign that parenting contract. And I'm about to write something that is going to sound pretty trite in light of all this, but I really do mean it. Just when I feel completely thrashed by how emotionally wicked these moments can be, Stella will show me her kind and gentle hands again. She'll reach up as we're reading together in the rocking chair and stroke my cheek. She'll gently pick her crayons out of the box and line them up in a row and smile with beaming pride. She'll run as fast as she can to one of her buddies and plant a giant kiss on them.

If I think about this stage at the immediate level, I'm crabby and anxious about it (with a dash of shame). If I think about it with a broader, more metaphorical perspective, I must admit that the hitting doesn't scare me at all. In fact, it pleases me in a strange way. While I will never condone hitting, I will support Stella in expressing her feelings, especially those nasty and uncomfortable ones like anger and frustration. Sure, we have a very long road ahead of us in terms of fine tuning the ways in which we express all this, but she's already starting the process. She's already got a voice, and our job right now is to help match the actions of her beautiful hands with her beautiful voice.