Aftermath of the Storm

I don’t know which was worse.

The venom-spewing, arm-flailing, world-class tantrum Max threw the other day, complete with destruction of property, threats of violence, and an attitude so big I don’t know how it fits inside his eight-year-old body. Or, the sobbing wreck of a child who sought me later on, uttering apologies and hugging me tightly, as if holding onto me were an attempt to hold on to himself.

“I’m a monster,” he said. “I’m a terrible kid.”

It’s one thing for a parent to think their child is a monster after a particularly bad moment—show me a parent who has never thought this and I’ll show you a parent who is lying—it’s quite another when the thoughts are coming from your own child. When I have those thoughts, they are fleeting. They blow over as soon as Max’s tantrum does.

But when Max has those thoughts, I worry about them taking root. Becoming permanent residents—unwelcome guests--within a brain already plagued by impulsivity and compulsiveness. There’s no room at the inn for self-doubt and low self-esteem, too.

I try, in vain, to explain to Max the difference between being “a bad kid” and making a bad choice. But no rationalization, no soothing, nothing I do convinces him that he really is a good kid. A good kid with a neurologically atypical brain.

We cuddle in my bed as I rub his back and offer reassurances I fear will be forgotten the next time a storm comes around. Max falls asleep, and I know tomorrow he will wake up refreshed and happy, without a hint of the self-loathing he demonstrated tonight.

Much as I hate his outbursts, it’s a piece of cake to listen to Max call me names compared to hearing the horrible things he says about himself.