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Eight is too young for self-hate
Painful yet important reminders from our youngest’s latest meltdown
Last night we suffered another Chernobyl-grade meltdown.
It always begins innocently enough; a small exchange of words which quickly build into a medium-size misunderstanding which, suddenly, erupts into an all-out screaming fit complete with put-downs, punches, and eventually physical restraint.
Such is life with a passionate, fiery 8-year-old boy we once named Eliot.
Last night, however, was different.
Last night, I witnessed something scarier than any tantrum and more painful than any tiny-fisted punch to the chest.
Last night, for the first time ever, I saw true self-destruction.
The setting was our backyard pool. The spark being a wager the tweens of the house had started to see who could “polar bear it” the longest.
In this instance, to “polar bear it” means to wade into water that is well beyond uncomfortably cold up to your necks and then squat there, waiting for the weaklings to be weeded, or rather, waded out.
In retrospect, we should have seen it coming. After all, one of Eliot’s biggest triggers is being told he’s not old enough or big enough to follow his three…
