An Andy Tale or Two

This afternoon, after my oldest son started whining at a neighbor's house when I told him to come home, after he slammed into the neighbor's storm door in an attempt to stomp away from me, after I did one of those "ohhaa" reactions to his storm door moment, after he interpreted that "ohhaa" as laughing at his folly, after screaming at me with his fists in the air (still on neighbor's front porch), after I gave him the stink eye and took two menacing steps toward him while barking something along the lines of "stop it now," Andy took off running from me.

And I completely lost it.

And I took off running after him.

He was running home across the street.

The logical part of me knew where he was headed and that there was no need to further embarrass myself by running after him at top speed (okay, MY top speed). But the illogical part of me was in control.

And I was mad.

And he knew it. When he hit our driveway, he looked over his shoulder. I'm not quite sure if he expected to see me running after him, but I do know that his speed increased at that point.

Into the house and into his room. Obviously, the logical part of his brain was working at that moment.

I won't share the particulars but I can reassure you that I did not beat him within an inch of his life. He did have some quality alone time after that moment. For quite some time.

That illogical point of rage had fizzled out a bit by the time I hit his room. I think the sheer fact that I ran helped burn off some of it. But it reminded me of the one other time that kid ran from me and I had felt that same rage take over.

He was 3, maybe 3 and a half. We were at the neighborhood park with 5 or so neighborhood kids and 2 other parents. I had seen him push the neighbor girl once and had already scolded him. About 10 minutes later, he did it again.

It must have startled him to hear me yell "Andrew" right as his hands left the girl's shoulders because he gave me the deer in the headlights look and turned and ran.

Problem was, we were in a fenced playground. Problem was, he had kicked off his shoes. Problem was, he ran along the edge of the fence where the weeds grow. Problem was, he ran right into a patch of stickers. Barefooted.

Problem was, I was in such a momentary rage at the fact that the kid was running from me that I couldn't stop yelling at him as I stomped toward him.

Blinded by that raw emotion, it took a few seconds to realize he was screaming. And crying. And not because of me. And it took a few more seconds to digest the fact that he was hurting. And a few more seconds to put it all together - bare feet covered with stickers.

And yet, that raw emotions was still boiling at the top and while the logical part of me said I had to deal with my hurt kid, the illogical part of me was yelling things like "You don't run from me! Ever! This wouldn't have happened!"

Not that he heard a word I said as I examined his feet (still yelling at him). He was crying and screaming. And since there was no way I was getting those stickers out of his feet at the park (because it required someone to sit on him and hold his legs down while the other one pulled little splintery bits of stickers out), I had to carry him all the way home.

He was crying and I was working really hard to drop the anger. And by the time we got home, I was back to logical mom who needed to do some amateur surgery.

And after that lovely tale of childhood and fabulous parenting moments, I should reinforce the fact that he is, in fact, not a monster child. Despite the previous two tales here. He needs for me to beat him more often.

Kidding. Sort of.