Let me tell you what happened this week.

On Tuesday we were having a bit of a rough day at work, the boys and I.  When B (5yo) and I were heading back from the sandpit on the outskirts of school property he threw his baseball cap at me - not in anger but in tired,-frustrated-and-bored-boy-ness - and because I didn't see it coming, it hit me directly in the face.

It hurt quite a bit.  I don't get hit often, I don't get hit in the face often and I don't get hit very hard, on purpose in a vulnerable spot often.  It hurt quite a bit.  I stopped in my tracks and put my hand up to my face instinctively.  My eyes were screwed shut and had watered a bit.  Not pleasant.  Right in the lip.

It didn't bleed but it kinda had pus or some watery something come out..I've never had a wound like that.  It swelled up and looked awkward and was painful.  Great.  On that afternoon I was not in the mood to fight with them very much and so I only re-informed him that his was unacceptable behavior.  I probably should have come down harder.



When Dad came home, the incident didn't make it into my day's report, partly because other things came up, partly because I wanted to deal with it myself (and in general I want to appeal to Dad's authority less so they will recognise mine more) and partly because he was having a rough week and therefore not as able to keep up a conversation as well or for as long as he normally can.


The next morning I saw that my lip was still a bit swollen.but that it was starting to heal like one of them weird scratches where it looks like the skin's been stitched back together.  Again, never seen it where the skin pretended like it was broken and needed repair but no blood was drawn. 

I thought it through on my way to work and soon after I'd arrived and briefly said hello to Dad, J (the 9yo) took his attention about something important and I snuck past them into the living room where B was in the arm chair watching a movie.


"Good morning," I said, smiling and he looked surprised and then a bit happy to see me.  I don't think he heard me come in and I know he's unaccustomed to me going out of my way to find him to say hello. 

"Hi," was his small reply, his eyes trained on me and one hand in the bag of dry cereal on his lap.  I think he thought something was up because he couldn't read my body language.

I came right up and asked, "Can I show you something?" and was already kneeling down so we could be at eye-level.  I had to keep plowing forward lest I have a chance to think and then chicken out.

He got excited because he's five and I was going to show him something.  It might have been a frog!  He started to sit up, saying, "Yeah!" in anticipation but then stopped moving when he saw I was coming to meet him.

I was close enough. I pointed to my face, and asked, "Do you know where this came from?"  He answered right away and answered accurately, finally looking away from me back at the television.  He began to fill with dread.


"This is the only reason I ask you not to throw things," I explained.  "It's because I don't want people to get hurt, not because I don't want you to have fun, OK?" I get an imperceptible nod and still no eye-contact.  "So, no more throwing, please," I conclude with a less-soft tone (because it's not a request) and I get up to head back to the kitchen with a pat on the leg.  I hope I left him to think about it but I really don't know how much thinking about he can do.


If I was his dad I would have asked him to look at me while I was speaking and I might even have asked him to say back to me what I had been explaining, just to be sure of comprehension.  But I'm not Dad and I'm still working on being as strict as he.  To be honest, I had it in mind to try grace.  I wanted to see if I might get a different response from them, as the good cop.


As I turn I see Dad had stopped his conversation with J and was craned round the corner to see what what was going on. I had been trying to speak quietly - so B would know it was between us and I wasn't getting him in trouble with Dad - but I probably wasn't quiet enough.  Dad's face was intense: about 65% concerned, 25% prepared to be annoyed or fly off the handle and 10% perplexed.

I walked past and he asked what happened.  Irrespective of how much he'd heard, he understood what type of conversation it was, so all I needed to say was that I had been hit yesterday and it had left a welt.  Dad's stare got a little more intense if you can believe it.  He didn't even say anything.  He just looked at me (or through my head) while he was possibly seething and I was desperately trying to read his expression. 

It might have been that he wanted further explanation.  It might have been that he was plain disappointed.  It might have been that he was livid and I was gonna get it.  OR it may have been a deke and nothing was wrong at all.  Really couldn't tell.  At a point, I forfeit the staring contest and shrug & exhale a "what are you getting at?" gesture because I was ready to do anything to make the glaring stop.

He goes back to whatever he was discussing with J and emits a "huh" that's rich between the lines. A moment later, he looks back up at me with the same angryish stare and now it's a sort of delayed "Really??" on his face. I wonder if he doesn't like my method.  (He's allowed to not like it: he's the parent.) I cave.  I need to know what's going on. 

"Does that face mean you wish I had told you yesterday?"  I thought perhaps it was the concealing and then robbing him of the opportunity to have a timely response that was the problem.

"Nope; that face means I wanna kill 'im," and with that, some steam had been let off and he softened.

So he'll let the incidence of a different method slide.  Good.  If my method doesn't connect that's fine but I did want to try.  I wanted B to see a hurt that looks scarier than the bruise your brother might have gotten when you pushed a doorknob into his torso.  (This happened on Friday.)  He honestly looked like he felt guilty when he saw my face up close.  I caught him stealing peeks at it later that morning as well.

I thought Dad was still deciding whether he would go into the living room and follow up with B.  I thought he had become incensed* at the understanding that one of his children had hurt someone.


He just let it go.  I don't know what was said in my absence but it didn't come up again.  And B stopped throwing things, after two reminders that day.  It's tricky: I don't want to make Dad out to be an ogre, but neither do I want to come down hard on the kids so that they learn to be afraid and discouraged instead of learning what behavior is not acceptable and why.  Sigh. 

He's a very good father and I don't know very much about parenting.




Well... I've sat here for twenty minutes trying to remember the greater story I wanted to weave this into and it's gone.  So, the post ends here.

*incense (verb, used with object)
to inflame with wrath; make angry; enrage

Origin: 
1400-50: late Middle English incensen < Latin incēnsus; replacing Middle English encensen < Anglo-French < Latin, as above