Kids shove kids. Brothers shove brothers. I know this, but ...
Monday, May 12th, 7:23 a.m.: Suspects' Father was emptying the
dishwasher while suspects watched "Sesame Street" in the living room.
Suspects' Mother had left for work early, otherwise Suspects' Father
would have been in the recliner finishing his coffee and trying to wake
up. At time stated above, Suspect 1 emitted high screech-like cry,
which continued for what Suspects' Father later reported as "several
hours," at the end of which time Suspect 1 stopped screeching and
Suspect 2 began wailing. Suspect 2 then ran into the kitchen where
Suspects' Father was standing and produced tears and other signs of
physical distress. Suspects' Father reported examining Suspect 2's back
and finding teeth marks and red oval mark of approximately the radius
of Suspect 1's mouth. Suspects' Father reported yelling at Suspect 1.
Monday, May 12th, 7:48 a.m.: Suspects' Father reported turning out
kitchen lights after having put jackets on Suspects prior to taking
both Suspects downstairs to put Suspect 1 on school bus. Suspects'
Father reported screeching and crying "of an escalating nature" out by
the front door at this time. Suspects' Father came out of kitchen to
find hair of Suspect 2 in tightly closed hand of Suspect 1, both
Suspects crying and wailing. Suspects' Father reported yelling, "Alex,
no! Touch nice!" and separating the two, after which Suspect 1 petted
Suspect 2's head in a "somewhat rough" manner, screeched a bit, and
grabbed arm hairs of Suspects' Father.
I later suspected that Ned had pulled one over on me; in pro football,
the player who slaps back often gets the penalty. Ned's been known to
shove first. Then an arm, an elbow, a push and a "Naaa!..." . Neither
boy talks, really, and in such moments neither boy needs to.
Alex doesn't seem to understand Ned's affectionate touches. Ned's hugs
do tend to resemble tackles, full of arm and body weight. Alex starts
squirming while Ned hauls himself off and stands there looking at his
brother, his look of confusion often thickening to a pout. If I see
these moments, I step in, the giant therapist who kneels down and says,
"Group hug!" as I interlock their arms and hold them close until they
get the goddamned message.
The message, I'm afraid, is more for Alex. Biting, hair-pulling,
screeching for a video, refusing to eat at the table with the rest of
us, rattling the bedroom doorknob and screaming an hour after bedtime
until he keeps Ned up and chips away at mom and dad's evening. Always
with the screeching. My vision of his future has darkened. How's he
going to hold a job if he can't hold a conversation?
"Maybe it's only a phase," Jill says. But she doesn't believe that
anymore, and neither do I. Maybe it's his dawning self-awareness. Maybe
it's frustration that he can't talk. But why can't he talk? Doesn't he
want to communicate with us on our level? Talk to Ned and you can see
the flicker of recognition, even if what comes back is still babble.
Talking to Alex can be - I admit this with a heavy heart a month short
of his fifth birthday -- like talking to the recliner.
Other people are starting to notice. Last week, in McDonalds, Alex
screeched and yelped and wouldn't stay in his chair. A man who was at
the next table with his girlfriend loomed in and said, "You stop giving
your daddy a hard time. He bought this you this nice breakfast..." It
was good natured, get-the-kid-on-our-side kind of comment. Alex calmed
down. The man looked at me and said, "I used to work with them. The
grown-ups, you know. Oh, they used to spit and bite..."
"They only way they have to express themselves," his girlfriend added, closing the incident.
A few weeks ago on the playground, Alex grabbed a little girl by the
hood and tried to pull her off her tricycle. He loves tricycles. "Alex,
no!" I said. "I'm sorry," I said to the parents and the little girl.
"I'm sorry. Alex, no." I met the parents' eyes but didn't get back from
that critical, "Oh, that's okay." There was no camaraderie of
parenthood, not a blink of sympathy or understanding. It was as if I'd
apologized to lizards, or to people who knew there were adults like
Alex but who didn't know that, once, those adults were still just kids.
Bio: Jeff Stimpson's articles and essays can be found on his website at jeffslife.net Jeff has also written a book entitled: Alex: The Fathering Of A Preemie.
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