Uh, Oh

As I was dragging my 5-year-old son down the hallway of his pre-school for the third time, I realized I had goofed. I had allowed him not to go to school when he didn't feel like it. Who could blame the little guy? It's cold in Iowa in the winter. It's dark, and icy, and quite dreary. It is so much nicer to snuggle in bed with someone who adores you and to sleep late. My little bear cub and I have been hibernating this winter, enjoying lazy mornings and even lazier afternoons.

The consequence of this is an all-out war in the mornings when my youngest boy has to go to school. Number three son has an uncanny ability to take clothes off as soon as they are put on. It's really quite magical. Yesterday morning, I put his clothes on four times. He took them off five times. It's remarkable. Wrestling a five-year-old into his clothes is a very good work out. I don't need to go to the gym. Wrestling a five year old into his coat, and into his car seat, and putting on a seat belt is . . . interesting. My son has an uncanny ability to become boneless in a moment's notice; passive resistance will come in handy for him someday. Perhaps he will teach a seminar on the subject. He is qualified.

On the drive to school, I imagined calling the Division of Youth and Family Services.

"Um, yes, I am being abused."
"Are you currently in any danger?"
"Yes, can you hear that?" I'm referencing the ear-piercing screams coming from the back seat.
"Yes, can you go some place safe?"
"I suppose the preschool is safe."
"Will your husband come to the school?"
"Oh, it's not my husband"
Confused silence on the other end of the phone.
"Can I be placed in foster care?"
"Is this some kind of joke?"
"I'm afraid not."

The whole process took more than an hour. When I arrived at school, with my whirling dervish of a son in tow, I was sweaty and out of breath. My hair had come loose from its pony tail and I only had one earring on. While dragging my son down the hallway on his back--his coat making a nice impromptu sled--I failed to see the humor in the moment. The preschool teachers were hiding grins. I didn't feel bad leaving, while my son laid on the floor and the teachers cajoled him to come into the classroom. I waved and shouted "byeeee" and skipped down the hall to the freedom of my car.

Discipline is, by far, the hardest part of parenting for me. I have a tendency towards being overly permissive. When I yell at my children, they tend to laugh at me. My boys have often told me that "you're not scary." All through my parenting career, I've had to have coaches who give me pep talks on discipline. "You can do it! Stick to your guns!" . . . talking me through a time-out or an evening in their bedrooms, or letting one of my children cry themselves to sleep. Discipline does not come naturally to me. My husband tends to do the heavy lifting on this front.

I see the benefit and necessity of discipline for children. How are they to learn otherwise? Life isn't a soft pillow; it's hard concrete. My boys will learn that life isn't fair. Life isn't easy; they need to understand that. We all have to do things that we don't want to do. For instance, they may have to drag their five-year-old son down a linoleum-covered hallway on a Tuesday morning into their pre-school class. They may have to do it all over again on Wednesday and Thursday morning, too. I don't know about my son, but I certainly learned my lesson.