Splatter Patterns

[kirstenj_2004]

It was not one of my finer parenting moments. I didn't get mad or over-react - in fact, considering the circumstances, I maintained the sort of calm that would have pissed of Mother Theresa and made her say impatiently, "What's wrong with you? You're supposed to be mad!" No, what made the moment less than stellar was the fact that I just didn't know how to handle it. At least it wasn't the kind of situation that required a 911 call or a trip to the emergency room. It was a simple problem of one of the kids wilfully creating chaos and me not knowing how to discipline him.

Here's something weird - the kid wilfully creating chaos was George. This does not happen. George is the good one. I have used the words "chaos" and "James" in the same sentence so often that the two terms are virtually interchangeable. But saying "chaos" followed by "George" would be like saying "responsible" followed by "Homer Simpson". It's a mismatching of concepts. It just doesn't go.

What happened was this. I was sitting at my laptop responding to emails, under the blissful assumption that as long as I could hear both kids, all was well. James was at the computer next to me watching Youtube videos of Roary the Racing Car. I was vaguely aware of George in the background, running around and laughing. All of a sudden, my blissful interlude was interrupted by Gerard calling my name. And not in a good way. It was an ominous sort of summons, the kind that invariably means that something is damaged and/or needs cleaning up.

When I went to look I was greeted by the sight of the couch cushions laying flat on the floor. Soaked. Drenched. Completely saturated with water. George had been transporting cups of water from the bathroom to the cushions, and then flinging (not merely pouring, but actually flinging) the water at the cushions. The cushions and the carpet they lay on were like soggy marshes, the kind Indiana Jones tramps through while chasing alligators.

I sternly asked George why he had done this. I wasn't expecting an answer - after all, this is an autistic child with limited conversational skills - but to my surprise, I got one. He said just one word: "Splatter!" And he dissolved into uncontrollable giggles. My sense of being aghast at the soaking mess was hard to balance with the humour of the situation. You have to understand, George has very infectious laughter. You hear this kid laugh, and you get this uncontrollable urge to laugh yourself. But if your kid does something naughty that's funny, you cannot let them know that it's funny. If they think it's funny they will do it again.

I tried to let George know that it wasn't funny.

This was not easy. I mean, I knew why he had done what he had done. He didn't do this because he's autistic and doesn't know better. He did it because he's a six-year-old boy and full of nonsense. I cannot discipline him as I would a regular six-year-old boy, though, because George does not get the concept of discipline. I do not spank either of my kids, and while time-outs work well for James, they are lost on George. I tried it anyway, and the child giggled all the way through the allotted five minutes. I hauled the soaking cushions over to the time-out spot to sternly point at them and say, "No!" Bad idea - seeing the fruits of his labours only served to remind him of how funny this all was. Making him clean up the mess wouldn't have worked either. It would have given him an opportunity to stomp around in the sloshy carpet and spread the mess. Removing priveleges doesn't work either, because he would just amuse himself by counting his fingers.

In the end, I tried my best to make the time-out effective. I placed towels and heaters on and around the pool that had once been a carpet. I squeezed out the cushions as best I could and then laid them out to dry.

And then I sat down, thought of George saying "Splatter!" followed by that infectious giggle, and I laughed until my face hurt.