And Zen What

Six is going through a tough patch. He's what we call "boingy." Jumping up and down at random, leaping onto furniture, leaping off of stairs, hanging like a monkey from the bars that hold his top bunk up, slamming all doors, grabbing toys from sibs, saying "I hate you" when he's told what to do.

"I hate you." Progress!!! I haven't heard "You don't LIKE me" for a while now--a week? 2 weeks?

And here's where the ol' adoptive parenting double bind comes in. There's a rule (we actually don't have that many rules here, despite what it may sound like lately) against saying "I hate you." You can say, "I am angry" in however many ways you can come up with, or, "NO NO NO NO NO," or even "Noooooo FAAAAIIIRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!" You can't say "I hate you."

So naturally, all the other kids wait in breathless anticipation for Six to be put in timeout or be assigned an extra job or be told naptime has just arrived.

Split second mothering is not my forte. I haven't worked this part out yet, and probaby won't, ever. He does not need to be "consequenced" on this one because, frankly, Six's "I hate you" is a piece of serious emotional progress. One's "I hate you" is a deliberate provocation. Two's "I hate you" is just adolescent flailing. And so forth. But Six's "I hate you" is music to my ears.

It's my great good fortune that he said it on the porch. That gives me, slow-witted though I am having been blind-sided (I was delivering gatorade for pete's sake), a chance to sternly tell him to come inside. Once we get out of sight of gleeful "now he's gonna get it" sib faces, I sit down, pull him onto my lap, tell him that he's my good, good boy forever, that I know he doesn't hate me and even if he ever did I will love him forever and he's stuck with me too bad for him.

Then we play the "don't you dare smile" game.

Then I tell him that next time he wants to say "I hate you" to me, he can say, "I am ignoring you" instead. It'll be our special code.

I am thrilled to hear "I hate you," from my sweet boy who may be, just maybe, learning not to blame his little self for all the abandonments he's been so devastated by in his short five year old life.

And his stint in the house has more than satisfied the bloodthirsty sibs outside. They greet him with some half-hearted "nah-nahs," and everybody goes back to playing some complicated game involving sand, shovels, slightly deflated soccer balls, and one roller skate each.

To all the moms with kids newly home: I hope you hear "I hate you" real soon.