September 23: Poison Ivy, Stung by Wasps, Prayer for My Son

"Oh, Avery," chuckled Mrs. Arable.  "Avery is always fine.  Of course, he gets into poison ivy and gets stung by wasps and bees and brings frogs and snakes home and breaks everything he lays his hands on.  He's fine."

Avery Arable is a normal boy.  Destructive.  Attracted to things with scales and stingers.  Always on the verge of another catastrophe.  Unlike Fern, his sister, who simply wants to sit beside a pigpen and listen to animals talk (a habit that causes Mrs. Arable much concern), Avery could probably blow up a shed with gun powder and still be considered "fine" by his mother.


My son is drawn to typical "boy" things--swords and guns and dead birds and live worms and basketballs and any form of dirt (sand, gravel, mud, etc.).  And he likes to play rough.  One of his favorite games is "boss battles," something I think he got from a video game.  In boss battles, my son is an attacking robot/alien/zombie/whatever, and I (or my wife or whoever) must defend myself against his escalating campaign of violence.  My son frequently dies in this game, and his opponents are frequently cooked or wounded or maimed.  Typical boy stuff.

However, my son has a problem with controlling his temper.  When things don't go his way, he tends to strike out at things.  TVs.  His sister's art projects.  His bed.  Other kids on the playground.  You name it.  When I ask him why he gave his friend "Johnny" a bloody nose, he shakes his head and says, "I just don't know.  I couldn't help it."

Now, he may be trying to avoid the consequences of his outburst, but I think it's a little deeper than that.  He really does seem to have no idea why he lashes out sometimes.  It's like a switch gets flipped, and, for a few minutes, he's gone.  A totally different little kid.  Then, he's back and, usually, pretty remorseful.  It's not an act to avoid punishment.

So, as I said last night, I'm at a loss.  I don't like the idea of medicating him, but I'm beginning to believe it may be necessary to help him control his impulses.  I've been praying about it a lot, and God doesn't seem to be giving me any guidance on the subject.  I'm not looking for much, just a handwritten message on the bathroom mirror saying something like, "Hey, everything's going to be OK.  Just give your son the medication.  Love the blog.  Yours truly, God."

Please pray for my son this week.  He'll be six on Friday.  He's a good little boy.  Really.  He needs a little help beyond what I can provide.  A little divine intervention maybe.

Saint Marty will check his bathroom mirror when he gets home tonight.

I'm not asking for much

September 22: Multitasking, Church, "Web" Dip

I'm writing this post in my journal as I sit in church.  Monday nights, my son attends catechism classes.  And once a month, there's a session for the whole family.  It usually involves baked goods (my favorite), a video, and (for me) a sometimes tedious presentation about the nightly topic.  Tonight's topic is the sacraments.

Since I'm writing in my journal, you can probably surmise that I'm not all that engaged in the presentation.  The guy's giving an etymology lesson on the word "sacrament."  Everybody's looking at their watches already.  I just checked my phone for texts.  I'm not proud of my boredom, but I have so many things I have to do tonight.  Get my son to bed.  Pick up my daughter from dance classes.  Clean the bathroom.  Type in this post.  Make my lunch for tomorrow.  My mind is going in quite a lot of directions.

Thus, I am multitasking.  In church.  God may strike me dead, but, with a pen in my hand, I can center myself a little more.  That's the poet in me.  I don't feel any kind of electrical disturbance in the air, and my hair (what's left of it) isn't standing up, so I don't think I'm going to be smited (smote?) by lightning.

My question on this Web dip Monday has to do with my five-year-old son, who had some problems at school today.  The problems involved my son's fist and other kids' faces.  I was really hoping this year was going to be different than last year.  I was actually praying for it.  Right now, in conjunction with two doctors, we're thinking about medication to help my son control his impulses.

Now, please don't flood this blog with comments denouncing modern psychiatric medicine.  I don't want to be directed to hyperlinks about the evils of vaccinations and ADHD drugs.  I know it.  I've read it.  That's why I'm conflicted.  However, my son is headed toward another year of detentions and fights and teacher meetings.  I'm getting a little desperate.

So, my question:

Will my son ever learn to control himself and be a good boy in school?

And the answer from E. B. White:

...Mrs. Arable scrubbed the back of Avery's neck, and wet his hair, and parted it, and brushed it down hard till it stuck to the top of his head--all but about six hairs that stood straight up.  Avery put on clean underwear, clean blue jeans, and a clean shirt...

So maybe there's nothing wrong with my son.  Maybe he's just Avery, with frogs in his pockets and hay in his hair.


That answer gives Saint Marty a little comfort tonight.  Amen.  (That's how you end everything when you're in church.)

I think God is a multi-tasker, too

September 15: Son Problems, Punching, "Web" Dip

Well, my son had a clean record for the first two weeks of first grade.  Today, the record fell.

While on the playground before school began this morning, my son punched a classmate in the face and got in huge trouble.  No detention or suspension.  However, he is now a marked child.  The playground aides are going to think he's a troublemaker.  His teacher sent home a note I had to sign.  The principal was notified.

While my son was taking his bath, I asked him what happened.  "I don't know," he said.  "I just got mad."  I tried to get him to tell me more about it.  He couldn't.  As he was getting out of the bathtub, he looked up at me and said, "Is something wrong with me, daddy?"

It broke my heart.  He looked worried and sad.  I gave him a hug, told him that everybody gets angry.  That he just needed to learn how to control himself more.  "I just don't know," he said, "why I do it."

He's a conflicted little boy, and, of course, I worry about him, for him.  I worry that he really has some kind of problem.  Mental illness.  Impulse control.  Whatever.  I just want him to be happy.  Have friends.  Follow the rules a little.

My question this Web dip Monday is:

Will my son have a good year in school?

And the answer is:

"Oh, it's coming all right," [Charlotte] said, lightly.  "The plan is still in its early stages and hasn't completely shaped up yet, but I'm working on it."

You know, that's a really good answer.  It reminds me how young my son really is.  He's in his early stages.  He's testing the waters, so to speak.  Navigating the social landmines of school.  He isn't completely shaped yet.  That's coming.


What I do know about my son:  he loves to play.  Has a great imagination.  Cares about people.  Cries when he sees somebody else crying.  Will share his chocolate bar.  Gives the best hugs.  Loves unselfishly.

Saint Marty knows his son is a good person.

My son--the future saint--and his sister