Overgrown Branches - #ModernLoveContest

Overgrown Branches

His visage changed.

The easy smile twisted to scowl. His bottom lip trembled. His brow deepened. He practically gnashed his teeth and shouted, "I'm not a big boy! I'm not even smart!" The only thing betraying the volcanic anger was the tear slipping from his eye's corner like an icicle in spring.

My beautiful, seven-year-old boy was having a meltdown.

What started as a request to sign his name on a school form somehow morphed into a veritable war zone in our living room.

"You are smart," I said simply like commenting on the weather. It was a matter of fact, not opinion.

Years ago, I'd read of the importance in keeping your voice calm, especially in the face of a screaming child. Some think it's easy to remain composed as a child screams at you. It's not. Someone screaming in your face is still someone screaming in your face, and it's always unnerving, no matter the source.

"No, I'm not," he spat.

He raged for a few minutes, letting spill a litany of complaints—about me, about his mom, about himself—and it was clear he was angry about having to go to school, to learn, about other kids. 

Some complaints made sense.

Most did not.

At the start of it all, he'd messed up the spelling of his (our) last name, switching the Y and A in "Fryar," which led into the meltdown. Though he'd written his name hundreds of times, one mistake led to him losing his cool.

I didn't understand it and I almost lost my own cool in the face of his sobbing rage.

Finally, I scooped him up.

Even though my boy was far too big to be cradled like a baby, I did it anyway. His legs ran from my arms like overgrown branches off a tree. 

At first, he clawed to get away, but I held him fast, smelling the top of his head, until my arms were damp with his tears. Within seconds, he relaxed. He melted into me as much as I melted into him.

"Let's try this again, okay?"

He sniffed. "Okay." His voice was small.

"Repeat after me: 'F'"

"F," he echoed.

"R." ("R.")

"Y." ("Y.")

"A." ("A.")

"R." ("R.")

I peeked down. "That was easy, right?"

He nodded.

I held him for a few minutes longer, not really wanting to let go, but remembering that every time I'd let go, he'd always come back.

Sometimes it's the brutal fights that made me love my son more. I could walk away from most fights with others, but with him, I couldn't. I wanted to heal those wounds before they festered.

I sat next to him as he wrote his name down again (correctly, this time).

He didn't really need me. Maybe he just wanted me there like a reassuring blanket in the dead of night when you're cold and scared and it felt like the fiercest armor against the world.

I'd be his armor as long as he needed.