We were on our fifth deployment in five years and our second consecutive Christmas without hubby. Given the information, there's no question my patience with both children had been running low. I was struggling with a weight-loss program through my doctor’s office and recalled hearing her say, “A glass of red wine a night is good for you.”
So I bought myself a bottle of red wine. It was nothing fancy. It was the $2 buck chuck from Trader Joe’s. Red wine is an acquired taste in my social gathering because most of my friends go for the sweet and fruity wine. This stuff was dry and bitter, but I liked the way it warmed my throat. It definitely had its benefits, like a calming effect to keep me from making verbal threats to the little people that live in my house and try to take over my mind; or worse, make me lose it.
I took up the habit of drinking a glass of red wine as a way to relax and unwind. But, soon I noticed a pattern. It was always followed by a stressful day of helping Tyler with his homework. The average homework workload could be completed in 40 minutes to an hour’s time, but that’s not the case with my son, who was diagnosed with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.
ADHD, which basically means not only does he struggle to sit still for long periods of time, he also has trouble keeping his focus. OCD needs no explanation. Does this make my kid some sort of freak? No way!
We all have some sort of disorder. Some people are clean freaks and others obsess about washing their hands. As long as it does not stop the flow of their daily activities, it’s normal. At least, that’s how it was explained to me by a medical professional.
Raising children is challenging. But raising a boy is challenging in a much different way than girls. Trust me! I should know. I have one of each. Believe me, it’s no picnic to deal with those challenges when you mix the two disorders with an intelligent eight-year-old, who has a mind like a 40 year old; minus one spouse who is out on a six-month deployment. It truly wears on your patience. Hence the reason God made wine.
A glass of red wine after a loss of patience with my boy genius seemed quite fitting. Frankly, there are not enough bottles of wine to keep me calm and relaxed for all of the antics my son comes up with. One of which occurred at Christmas and this time I had witnesses.
If it had not been for the presence of my mom and my stepson, who witnessed firsthand what I have been dealing with, no one would ever believe the stories. I am sure they both thought I had exaggerated a bit or was being over dramatic.
After only a week’s stay, I am convinced my mom was starting to worry about my “like clock-work” nightly glass of wine.
Although Ty’s outbursts of inappropriate, but funny comments were nothing out of the ordinary, I am sure mom was thinking I had turned into an alcoholic - and for no good reason!
My mom is from the old school and did not spare the rod on me, so I am sure she was thinking “Give the boy a spanking and call it a day.” I could see the worry on her face as I would pour a glass (just one) each night, per my doctor’s orders.
Surprisingly, I wasn’t at all concerned with what she thought. I was thinking, "Wait for it. Wait for it." Then it finally happened.
The other shoe dropped and the “real Slim Shady” stood up (those of you who’ll admit to listening to the Rapper Emenim will get that pun).
It was Christmas Eve and we were having a terrific family day. The kids and mom were playing the Wii as I prepared dinner. We collectively decided to celebrate a day early so that we could lay around on Christmas day eating leftovers and enjoying each other’s company.
We were getting ready to set the dinner table when the boy genius started complaining about having to turn off the Wii and help out.
Instead of ordering him to do what I asked, I used my top-notch parenting skill that I picked up from various sources, and redirected him. I sent him upstairs to wash his hands. It sounded easy enough and should only take a minute. Heck, I’ll even throw in an extra two.
Hooray! I was shocked when he came downstairs in less than five minutes. Usually, a simple task such as that would warrant 15 minutes easily because he’d get sidetracked by something in his room or the bathroom.
But no, he was back in no time. He quietly sat at the table. His facial expression looked like the cat who killed the canary and knew that he’d be next once I found out what he had done.
I asked him, “What was wrong?” He put his head down to avoid eye contact. That’s when I saw it. It was a tiny drop of blood oozing from his head and three huge patches of missing hair.
He had gotten into his brother’s razor and tried to do some personal grooming. It looked as if he tried to make one clean cut on the right side from front to back, but he skidded along the way and left some patches.
I guess he gave up and tried again from another angle, taking off more hair on the front left side of his head. That didn’t go as smooth as he would have liked, so he decided to try his right eyebrow.
I screamed at him, “What did you do to yourself?”
He tried to pull one of his Jedi mind tricks and deny what I was seeing, but thought better of it. He knew there was no getting out of this one. Instead, he said nothing.
My oldest son Curtis III, who was just about to sit down on the other side of the table, leaped up from his chair and came around to the boy genius’s side of the table. He closely inspected the handy work and repeated my sentiments.
He ran upstairs and returned a few seconds later with the razor he had used earlier that day to shave.
Did you use my razor?” he yelled.
C3 didn’t even wait for a reply. “It still has your skin in it,” he shouted. His hands were shaking as he held the razor up to inspect it.
My mom and daughter sat quietly. I guess they were in shock at what he had done. Then, my mother joined in on the chaos, asking the same questions, but losing her calmness with each unanswered question. “What did you do? Why did you do this? What were you thinking?”
Pretty soon everyone was yelling and trying to understand what had just happened? The whole scene was tragic. Okay, so now I am being over dramatic. But in our minds, it was a tragedy. He shaved off his hair and there was no way to fix the damage.
C3 just kept yelling at him. He was just as upset as I was. I could tell that he felt guilty because it was his razor that aided and abetted his brother in his curiosity.
I don’t think he was trying to physically harm himself. Maybe he was just curious about how it worked? I am sure that’s how all the scientists and engineers got their start - trial and error.
Then I felt guilty about not doing more boy-related things. Instead of teaching him to catch a football, I took him along with me to the nail spa, exposing him to eyebrow waxing and mani-pedis. Where else would he get such a notion to shave off his hair and eyebrows?
As mom and C3 continued to grill him about shaving off his hair, I quietly walked away to compose myself. I locked myself in the downstairs bathroom and counted to 20 before coming out. I think I even said a little prayer to God.
As I re-entered the room, silence filled the air. They stood around the table watching and waiting for my next move. I said nothing. I walked past boy genius who sat quietly with his head down waiting to be punished.
I stopped at the curio cabinet to grab a wine glass. I headed towards the kitchen to get my bottle of wine. I poured myself a glass. Drank it down whole, then poured another before taking my seat at the table with the bottle still in tow. Okay, so I broke my one-glass a night rule.
The mood was tense as they waited for me to inflict my punishment onto the boy genius. But as the wine settled into my system, clearer thoughts prevailed. I realized how fast his hair grew. It will be punishment enough when he has to go out in public looking like a landing strip for airplanes.
In that moment, I couldn’t help but laugh. It kind of reminded me of the patches of land that you see from out the window of an airplane. The view looks like patchwork from a quilt. "Patches" was all that I could manage to get out between the laughter.
At that moment, everyone started to laugh … not so much at the boy, but the situation. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard a friend say that her daughter decided to cut her bangs. Or that their kid fell asleep with gum in his mouth and tried to cut it out after it got stuck in the hair. There comes a time in every parent's life when they have a hair cutting story or two to share.
Now I can add myself to the list of those who have gone before me. To be honest, I have to say that I may not have recovered as quickly had it been my daughter.
Truthfully, the moment of clarity came when I went into the bathroom for that few seconds to hide my tears. Okay, it was divine intervention because only the act of God, not the wine, could have stopped me from doing the opposite of what I wanted to do prior to entering the bathroom.
Now, fast forward several months and you get the story of my own hair gaff, which was the catalyst for my 40 and Fabulous mantra. Imagine what my son would have thought had I punished him for accidentally cutting his hair and then the same to my own?
He could have reminded me of the Christmas Chaos. Instead, he was the first to support my new change. This has me thinking ... Maybe my metamorphosis of change had nothing to do with my hair.
From the time Ty was five, he has bugged me for a Mohawk and Blue hair. I have begrudgingly given in to his wants, but with stipulations: Not at the same time and "It better be Halloween or crazy hair day at school!"
Maybe he was going through his own changes and fighting his own mental and physical battle with his disorders. At his age, he certainly couldn’t know what they were or how to describe them. But he knew he was different. Maybe this was his way of dealing with his feelings.
Despite the traumatic effect his initial unveiling had on us all, we made light of the situation and decided that we would call him patches until his hair grew back.
By the following week, his landing strips were no longer patches of hair. It had grown back. No one aside from the five of us ever got to see his fancy patchwork up close and personal.
He was not too happy about his new name, but I felt it was truly a fitting punishment for his crime. I know what you are thinking, it certainly isn’t a mature way for a parent to handle such a matter? Probably not, but let’s face it, most of us are just winging it anyway.
Being a parent is one of the toughest jobs in the world and there’s not one book in my many collections on parenting that include a step-by-step manual for raising my child. There are many for raising children with similar characteristics, but the buck stops there.
I have manuals for every little thing I have ever purchased stored in my garage just in case it ever breaks or I forget how to work something. I can refer to it as often as I like. And if I happened to accidentally throw one away, I could look it up online to get the information I need. But there is no manual on how to parent the boy genius.
He is something kind of special. And I mean this in a good way. My problem is, how do you parent someone who is so tiny and dependent upon me for the basic necessities of life, and yet, has the knowledge of an old man who humbles your soul?
Like I said, he’s something kind of special. So while it seems that for the moment no such manual exists, I will wait patiently. I will take detailed notes of everything the boy genius does so that when help does arrive, surely someone will know what to do.
Until then, I will drink wine - twice weekly or as often as needed.
(Disclaimer: While the events in this story are true, no abuse of alcohol occurred. )
May I recommend a bottle of Zinfindel or a Malbec from Argentina? Love your display of levity in a tough situation... a great example for us all.
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