2003-09-17
Last night Clay had a prolonged and uncharacteristic meltdown. He fell asleep on the way home from daycare, which is not that unusual. He woke up when we got home and immediately started crying. He continued to cry unconsolably for probably 25 minutes--unheard of for him. My holding him didn't seem to help. I suggested things he reliably enjoys--going outside, having a snack, nursing--but he only repeated "No, no, no" and continued to sob.
I took him upstairs to his room. He wriggled out of my arms and lay down on the floor. I rubbed his back as he cried. I asked if anything hurt. "No, no, no." Did he want to get into his bed? "No." I lay down on the floor beside him. I told him I wished there was something I could do to help him feel better. I told him to cry as much as he needed to and to try to let me know if there was anything I could do to help.
I took him out onto the little balcony off our bedroom. He continued to cry. Back into his room. Finally he expressed interest in nursing. He nursed for a long time. Finally his mood shifted, he smiled. The rest of the evening--taking one of our dogs out for a walk, helping me make dinner, eating, getting ready for bed--passed without incident. The only thing I can imagine is that he had a bad dream.
It was hard to see him in such distress. But one thing I feel good about is my ability to let him express his distress. I believe that our culture is so uncomfortable with suffering that we try to talk others out of it--certainly I was raised this way. So the core distress is compounded by the message that one must snap out of it, move on, cheer up, put on a happy face.
When we were camping last weekend I was sitting around the campfire next to a guy with daughters ages six and three. The three-year-old was on his lap, howling because she missed her mother, who was off with the older girl. The guy, who seemed very nice, was trying to comfort the girl, kept saying, "It's okay, everything's okay." That seems like a pretty benign thing to say, compared to something like "You look much prettier when you're smiling." (I've actually heard people say this to children--can you imagine saying such a disrespectful thing to an adult?)
But, really, what kind of message is he giving her? She's in pain and he's telling her she has no reason to be, everything is fine. Well, guess what, pal? Everything is not fine. For that little girl at that moment, everything is terrible.
I don't mean to sound all preachy, here, and I certainly don't think I always get it right. But I think it comes fairly naturally to me to empathize, to be able to accept and tolerate the pain of the other person. To say, in a situation like the one I witnessed, "You really miss Mommy, don't you? It's hard waiting for her to come back."
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