Another trampled morning. Another foul undressing of the scars parents carve into a child. What did they do to make her suck unbroken attention onto herself, and how does that wound ooze such caustic jealousy of our other kids?
Tasha was actually the first one down to breakfast this morning, a rare event, and things were looking up early on. Initially, we navigated the typical program of interruptions during scripture time reasonably well. Then she insisted on making a loudly narrated performance of her potty break, five minutes into our reading.
“I have to go to the bathroom. I’m not staying for this. I’m GOING! To the BATHROOM!”
We all saw exactly what she was doing. This was an old routine.
“This is dumb! I’m LEAV—ING!” in extra long, emphatic syllables, so we were all certain to hear her over my (rough attempt at) measured reading.
Without lifting our heads, we felt each other’s hostility gathering around her.
“I’m NOT listening. I’m not coming BA—ACK. This is STU—PID!”
She promenaded back and forth, exaggerating her sassy hips and flipping a little attitude nod if she caught us looking.
We were watching a rerun. A lame one. We knew this show was about poking as many holes into the family fabric as possible, breaking up the harmony, tearing apart the discipline wherever she could.
I don’t think she premeditates this stuff. Her technique is way too clunky to be a deliberate production, but there’s no doubt that she wants to disrupt and that everything comes down to pulling focus from everyone else toward her, whatever the cost.
Even in January, Tasha runs to the bus most mornings holding her coat and shoes in her hands, not for any lack of time, but so the other kids are coerced into orchestrated shock that she runs all the way to the bus with her coat and shoes in her hands. I can’t imagine how, across the snow and stinging ice, but these are delicious moments for her. Last fall she resorted to eating live boxelder bugs at the neighbors’ doorstep in exchange for several minutes of horrified laughter and days of self-recounted tales of the stunt.
The whole thing is kind of nauseating – not just the bugs – but all the voracious cravings for attention. It’s pretty heartbreaking, actually, when I step back from it.
For her, this attention-seeking behavior is elemental. It’s reflexive. It’s almost like breathing. It’s so autonomic that when she has moments of lovely selflessness, which she does sometimes have, those moments are stunning. They are the result of deliberate effort, brilliant achievement. I work really hard to highlight them for her.
There weren’t any of those lovely moments this morning … Oh, man.
We kept on reading through the potty show and mostly ignored her. The older two kids got off to school on the early bus, and in the almost hour of time before the younger three left, Tasha spent a hefty thirty minutes in recital. Conversation with her is usually one-directional: from her mouth to our ears.
Here’s an example: “What’s the scariest movie you’ve ever seen?” she might ask.
She’s great at conversation starters. It’s truly a gift for her. But it’s a gift that has a lot of missing parts.
“Well, I’ve watched a bunch,” I’ll begin, “but there’s this scene in ‘2001: A Space Odyssey’ when a computer named HAL cuts the lifeline to one of – ”
“When I was five I saw ‘The Conjuring’,” she’ll interject. “That movie is so scary. One time my cousin made me watch …” and off she’ll go, no clue that I even heard the question.
Today’s recital was a string about books that she hasn’t read; books that her mom is going to buy her; the book that she’s going to read for her book report; the book that she isn’t going to read for her book report; the Lord of the Rings book that she read in class last year but can’t remember; the elf from Lord of the Rings who’s handsome; how Mimi the cat looks like the elf from Lord of the Rings; how cats have twenty muscles in their ears …
Thirty minutes. Nonstop.
Jean finally made her go find her backpack, and while she was gone, Agnes came over to me and snuggled close. She asked for my phone and pulled up a video of rainbow cakes. Agnes and I watched the swirling sugar and butter and fluffy egg batters and commented on everyone’s baffling fondness for sprinkles.
When Tasha came back after two minutes, the recital immediately resumed, unbroken.
But this time I kept my focus on Agnes and the fussy little cakes video. I heard the talking, but I didn’t listen, and apart from holding up my hand and pointing to Agnes, I didn’t respond.
Instant explosion.
“Cannon! LISTEN!!”
“Cannon is listening to Agnes right now,” Jean tried to calm her.
“No! CAN—NON!!”
Another of Tasha‘s amazing gifts is a mountain-splitting voice. It is piercing, I mean like through titanium armor. (Is that the thing? Or whatever NASA and the Navy Seals use. I’m not sure what – they don’t teach these details to music majors.) And she can flip the volume switch to max in one click.
“Hey, wait a sec, Tasha. I gave you attention for a long time this morning,” I pushed back. “Now it’s Agnes’ turn for a little bit.”
I shouldn’t have answered.
“You NEVER listen to me!”
“Honey, I listened to you for the whole time …“
“You’re so STUPID! You NEVER listen!”
“… before Agnes came over to me.”
I turned my head to ignore it and looked at Agnes. I hoped the fit would diffuse if I tried to disengage, but I knew I’d already messed up by letting it have space. My daughter was primed to bolt and was deciding between giving up on yet another moment and holding out for a sign that she mattered to me. I had to show her this time that she was a priority. I gave her a quick “it’s alright” half-grin and tried to return to the video with her.
“Fine! YOU NEVER LISTEN TO ME! YOU RETARD!!”
Total offense. Total rage. Total disconnection from reality and full-force leap into victim mode.
“You didn’t even hear a THING I SAID!”
“Tasha, what are you talking about?”
I broke. I pulled my eyes away from my daughter. I should have avoided Tasha’s lure, but I gave in, and I responded to her tantrum.
“I spent most of the morning listening to you.”
“I HATE YOU! You RETARD! You NEVER listen to me!”
Agnes and Hebert cowered and stayed out of range. Prior assaults had taught them basic survival. I’m sad to admit this.
“I HATE THIS HOUSE. You NEVER care about me!” she kept pounding.
Finally, the bus pulled up at the stop before ours. The two others grabbed their backpacks. Agnes turned off my phone.
“I’m sorry, Sweetheart.” I gave her a dismal hug.
“I love you, Mom. I love you, Dad,” she whispered. “Have a good day.” And she left with the little bit of pummeled sunshine she was able to salvage by herself.
Hebert trotted down the steps with his backpack bouncing wildly, already two stages into his one-boy race to the bus.
Tasha, distracted by the disappearance of her rivals, fell slack.
Fightless.
She reached for her bag and coat, and as she walked out the door, eight seconds from the furious eruption that had just blasted us, she was instantly – bafflingly – fine. Apparently, nothing at all had happened.
“Bye!” she cheered.
“Agnes! Wait for me to get my coat on!” she merrily called ahead. “Hebert! Don’t run!”