Hitting. I've About Had It Up To Here.

I don't know why I create little baby "hitters".
I certainly am not a "hitter" myself - and certainly not with little ones, for pete's sake!

And, with Sam, it wasn't in an aggressive way - starting at the tender age of 10 months - for several months after that - it appeared to me that he was whacking me because my face just happened to be there when he'd get excited.
Finally it occurred to me: remove face from whack-range = problem solved, pretty much.

Charlie, now, is another story.
At fifteen months, he's tantruming (throwing himself down on the floor crying and kicking feet) and whacking me in the face for fun, and for spite. I can even see the gleam in his eye as the wicked idea formulates, bubbles around and solidifies in his brain.
Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

I've scanned good ole Dr. Sears' website for reasons and solutions behind toddler-hitting.
Discouragingly, the articles I find seem to read as if the hitting is an endearing little toddlerhood trait which will soon pass. Surely it will, I know that from previous experience. But endearing it is not.

Even still, I tried ignoring the hitting.
I downplayed the hitting, as I'd block a blow, then issue a quick, non-emotional, non-involved verbal reprimand.
I tried showing him my sad-face after he'd hit it.
I actively seek out opportunities during the day to point out to him, and praise him, when he uses his "gentle hands".
I point out every instance when I use mine.

And yet the problem persists.
Yesterday, he scratched the crap out of my open eyeball, somehow, when whacking me in the face...while I was just sitting there, kindly reading books to his *sorry ass.

As long as I'm complaining...It also makes me frustrated - and yes, a bit resentful - when (on the rare occasion) Ronnie simply raises his voice an octave or two and issues a very simple, very unsweet, manly "NO." And Charlie heeds it.

Last night, Charlie was doing one of his favorite things - putting his foot up on the stereo buttons and turning various modes of surround sound on and off with his toe.
At Ronnie's crisp, concise, verbal man-correction, Charlie LISTENED, as always, with Ronnie. With absolutely no hesitation. WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?!?!
What IS the man-secret there?!

I think this is a good time for one of my favorite mantras, whose words Charlie will probably make his life-objective to spoon feed me:
I WILL NEVER BE THE MOTHER WHO'S ONLY RECOURSE TO A NON-LISTENING CHILD IS WHEN THE FATHER GETS HOME.
I repeat. NEVER.

So anyway, later that same evening, was when my eyeball and Charlie's fingernail somehow connected. OUUUCH!

I dug down deep into my wellspring of way-overboiling annoyance, and grabbed the lowest, most gutteral, nonhumanoid "NO" I could muster and practically yelled it in Charlie's not-stunned-enough-for-my-satisfaction face, grabbing his little toddler hitting-hands and clenching them together in his lap. More than once.

Mistake on my part. He was so hysterically tired, he was literally writhing around in hysterical possessed-man laughter, then crossed that line and finally squeezed out a few obligatory tears, but just a few.

Ugh, it was awful. No lesson was learned - absolutely none. Except maybe for me, to not to do that again. I felt bad - for losing it, for handing my self-control over to him, and for shouting in my 15 month old's face...what a loser!

So the next day at nap, I clicked on Supernanny, which I Tivo faithfully for positive reinforcement, and channeled Jo Frost for the whole rest of the day. It worked, too!

Charlie still gave me my daily pummeling - in a crowded aisle at Walmart, of course - but I was a heck of a lot more under control. I was SuperMommy all afternoon yesterday!
I wish Supernanny came on every night, so I could be SuperMommy all the next day.



*I say this lovingly, of course...