Buggy hits. He hits me. He hits me in anger. He hits me on purpose.
And I don’t know how to stop it.
I have a book on my bedside table that I have skimmed through and keep telling myself to read more in depth.
I’ve talked to the pediatrician.
Hubby and I have had many a pow-wow about our plan(s) of action.
But he still hits.
But my approach I feel is better than when I first realized it was a problem that needed a plan of attack.
My approach? A mix between consistency and the rewind button.
I’m a big believer in finding the reason, the antecedent, the cause of the behavior instead of just reacting with discipline.
And let me tell you, I’ve been studying hard.
It doesn’t happen every day. But I’ve been hit every day this week.
It doesn’t happen every time he’s upset. It happens most every time he’s upset with me.
After the “no, you do not hit mama”; after the “you can yell, you can stomp, but NO hitting”; after the sit-in-time-out struggle; after the screaming crying yelling blubbering; after the “I sorry”; after the hug and kiss – I play back the last incident in slow motion.
That slow motion replay is quite educational. I’m becoming more aware.
More aware of my urge to pull things from his hand. My urge to continue typing an email or sort through receipts or prep a meal or fold the last shirt instead of heeding his call to read, to play, to go to another part of the house. My urge to have him work on my time rather than on his time. My part.
I think I’m getting better. Unless it’s sharp and dangerous, we negotiate the object away (“ooh, look at this book, it’s so much better than the slip of paper with my library password that I’ve asked the librarian for 5 times this summer”), I stop what I’m doing to read the book or fix the train, and we change pace on his time or with prepping (“after this toss we are going inside”, “after this ride we are going home”).
But he still hits.
That’s the downside. The big downside.
Since the realization of the problem, the 2 year check-up, the first pow-wow sessions – I feel like I have a small amount of control in the situation. And even that small amount, however miniscule or misguided it may be, makes me feel like there is light at the end of the tunnel and a future with a son that stomps his feet instead of hits his mother.
I just wish I knew that I’m doing the right thing. I guess time will only tell.