A Jamie Story

Don’t let those adorable dimples fool you. That face means trouble.

This morning we were expecting guests and, in true busy mom fashion, I put off a lot of house cleaning until the very end. So when I went upstairs to lay Johnny down for his nap I was calculating exactly how much time I had left to take the curlers out of my hair and throw on some make-up, dress the kids in their clothes, take out the bag of trash that was stinking up the house, tidy up the kitchen, and give the toilet and potty seat a quick scrub before our friends arrived. I’d be able to do it all if I was quick and efficient, I thought. But as I came back downstairs I was outraged to find the living room littered with Chex and Cheerios. In the mere minutes that I was out of the room Jamie had pulled a chair into the pantry, climbed up to the cereal shelf, pulled down two nearly full boxes of cereal, and then proceeded to scatter the contents all over the living room floor, from wall to wall. I was fuming mad because incidents like this are a regular occurrence with Jamie. Later in the day he dunked several battery operated toys into the fish tank, hit his sister and friend in the head with a toy hammer, and scattered Josie’s collection of hair rubber bands all over the bedroom. Jamie’s troublemaking is legendary. So much so, in fact, that my mom refuses to hang up the phone if she’s talking with me and she hasn’t heard a Jamie story yet. She knows that if she stays on the phone long enough she will hear him getting scolded for some outrageous act of no good and she can always expect to get a good laugh.

But actually, there’s nothing humorous about it. The fact that my son constantly misbehaves and refuses to follow directions is frightening. For one thing, I am tired of cleaning up his messes and spending money to replace things he’s broken (like the $200 universal remote control he smashed when he threw a motorcycle helmet on top of it, just to give an example). And then there’s the obvious immediate concern of safety. His life could be in danger if he doesn’t stop when I tell him not to run in the parking lot or not to play with the kitchen knife. And years from now, if I haven’t taught him good decision making skills, his health will be at stake when he agrees to try his friends’ cigarettes, alcohol, or drugs. But the prospect that scares me the most is that, if I don’t handle this problem now and in the right way, it could someday ultimately affect the mother-son relationship that I share with him. Second only to losing a child to death, having a dysfunctional or non-existent relationship with my adults children is my worst nightmare. I know several grown-up men who have poor relationships with their moms due to the unhealthy way that discipline was handled during their childhoods.

I do not blame Jamie. He is not a bad boy. He’s a wonderful little man, full of spirit and pining for attention. If anyone gets the finger pointed at them, then it’s me. I guess I have a soft spot for my little boy. Maybe I love him too much. I let him get away with things he shouldn’t. He looks at me with those big brown eyes and my insides go soft. Plus, I just don’t have the energy to keep up with him. He was still so young when baby Johnny arrived on the scene, and still in such need of constant attention and continual affection, all of which I failed to give him because my time and energies were otherwise employed. Between all the diapering and nursing, somehow poor Jamie got lost in the shuffle.

But no more! All that is about to end. I am stepping up to the plate and whacking this discipline problem out of the park. The next couple weeks (or however long it takes) are going to be all about Jamie. I will be watching him like a hawk and scrutinizing his every move. The poor little guy won’t be able to escape my gaze. We're going to nip his defiance in the bud. It’s not going to be easy, seeing as I still have two other children to watch over and care for, but it’s going to be worth it.

(Me with a six-month-old Jamie)