Attention seeking behavior is a child's way to seek connection when feeling invisible or in need of comfort. Choosing to ignore or punish only reinforces the need to hide. We parent the way we were parented until we learn to break the cycle.
It was almost Christmas and the house was decorated for the holidays. I was burnt out from 3 part-time jobs and trying to cover the same duties I’d been handling as a stay-at-home mom, even though now I was divorced. The anger in my home was palpable, even as I tried to cover the red grief with pine garland and twinkling lights.
Ten-year-old Alan was shooting Nerf darts at the cat. I told him to stop.
“Why don’t you help us decorate the tree?” I said as I hung one of the ornaments.
“That’s boring,” he sighed. He shot another dart and the cat yelped and ran out of the room. My boyfriend signaled me to ignore it and invited me to return to decorating the tree. Choosing my battles, I decided to follow his advice and hoped the behavior would dissipate if I didn’t give it attention.
“Mom,” he said. “Can you take me on a bike ride?”
“No, it’s almost dark,” I answered, not looking up from hanging another ornament. “I had asked you guys to decorate while I was at work but since you didn’t, MacGyver and I have to do it.”
“Then can we go tomorrow?”
“No, I have work in the morning and errands to run. And then I need to study for my final at school.”
“How come we can’t ever do anything fun anymore?” he whined.
I sighed.
A log in the burning fireplace split and rolled to its edge, casting a stream of sparks into the air. Isaac began to poke at the fire with the tongs to ignite more sparks and the burning log rolled out the rest of the way onto the hearth, catching the box of garland on fire. MacGyver ran over and stomped the flames out as Isaac gasped and fell back on his butt, his eyes wide with fear.
“Alan!” I shouted. “Stop playing in the fire. Why don’t you go upstairs and play.”
He slunk upstairs while MacGyver put the log back in the fire and cleaned up the melted plastic and ash.
“I keep ruining everything,” I heard him say.
It wasn’t five minutes later that I heard a guttural roar and a snarl, and two pairs of thundering feet in the hall overhead. Shrieking, Alan fled down the stairs as I was just in time to watch a hammer fly end over end, barely missing his head, leaving a gash in the wall. His sister stomped back to her room, slamming the door. The wreath on the pantry door downstairs crashed to the floor and a couple of ornaments shattered. I thought I saw a grin play on his face, but it disappeared when he looked at me.
“What did you do?” I accused, folding my arms.
“Nothing.”
“Go to your room!” I ordered.
“I didn’t do anything! I hate you!” he screamed and ran up to his room, slamming his door.
“Try again,” I fumed.
He opened his door and slammed it again.
“Try again,” I said, my anger rising. I was standing outside his bedroom.
Slam!
I opened his door and loomed in his doorway.
“I am sick and tired of you slamming doors! You already broke this one twice! If you can’t respect our property, you need to have your time out outside!”
“Nooooo!” he shrieked. “Noooo!”
“Out!” I boomed, pointing out towards the door. My hands felt hot.
“Noooo!”
He froze, terror in his eyes. I took his wrist and pulled him downstairs with me, flipped on the porch light, opened the front door and pushed him out. I closed the door to show him how it was done properly and locked it.
“Let me in!” he cried.
He started bashing the front door with a rock. The rock in the shape of a heart he was so proud of finding. The heat in my arms traveled up my neck to my head.
“Don’t you dare break another door!” I yelled through the door.
He kept pounding.
“You have 5 minutes but if you keep that up, it’ll be 10,” I seethe through the door.
Their dad had been too passive with the kids and I was always the bad cop having to dish out punishments. Of course they wanted him instead of me.
The pounding of the rock stopped.
And then the glass inset shattered.
I unbolted the door and flung it open, but Isaac was already across the lawn, running away. He hadn’t broken the glass with a rock. He had used his hand!
The heat from my head turned cold and I suddenly had visions of myself at six years old. We had fled our home after my dad had attacked my mom and were staying at my grandparents house. It had only been 2 weeks and I’d knocked over a sculpture, broken a mirror, and spilled paint all over a bedspread. It was when I was bickering with my brother in the car that my otherwise silent and unruffled grandfather pulled over, raised his hand and slapped me across the face. So when I accidentally broke the potted plant in their house, I was scared he would hurt me. I had fled to a hiding place under the detached garage, wondering if he, like my dad, was unsafe too.
My heart shattered in that moment, my momentary vision of Little Me blurring into the picture of Alan's hand sliced by the glass. It was the shard that pricked my soul, and a bit of blood oozed from my anger-encrusted frozen core. All alone in the dark of night was a child just wanting to be noticed.
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