Violent, or just an asshole

Not a good evening. The kind of evening that makes me look like a real shit, in fact. Probably fairly.

I just wrote D that, in effect, I wouldn't be writing her tonight. (I write her most nights, at this point.) I didn't say why, except that it wasn't a good evening. She'll worry, but I don't want to attach this narrative -- dumb as it is -- to my real name. I probably wouldn't write it here, either, except I figure I had better record the facts somewhere in case Wife comes along later to accuse me of something a lot worse.

It's not even dramatic. Just stupid.

It's the first day back at school after the Winter Break. As usual, the boys come to my office after school. I'm in meetings till late, and then I have e-mail to mop up for a while. The boys are both in high spirits, which somehow makes them both very loud. All the way home, they are making the small car echo, singing and chanting highly repetitive nonsense phrases, or words out of context with no meaning. I don't do well with repetitive noises, and ask them to stop. Then I start insisting that they stop. Again. And again. And louder. Finally I shout, and they stop ... until, a couple of minutes later, Son 1 utters one of the words they were riffing on -- "moose" of all things -- in a low, quiet, monotone. He isn't even making an obnoxious noise at that point, but the semantic repetition was just too much. We are only a couple of blocks from home at that point, so I stop the car and make him get out and walk the rest of the way. (In fact, he beats us home by a few seconds.) Not that it accomplishes anything, but I am hoping to make a point.

Wife is fixing dinner, so she and I talk about the day while she finishes up in the kitchen. Then we all sit down to eat, and it begins again. Wife and I try to maintain the veneer of a civilized conversation during the meal, meaning a conversation that includes the boys as well. But the boys keep up the banter, the echoing repetition, the annoying voices, the hysterical laughter ... all this stuff that was so getting on my nerves in the car. They are having a blast. The meal goes on. The meal winds down. The boys are still riffing energetically off of each other, having a wonderful time. I can even tell it is fun. If it weren't making my whole nervous system go TILT! I would probably want to join the game. But as it is, it is making me absolutely crazy.

Finally I send them both away from the table. I explain, somewhat peevishly, that I just can't take any more of the noise or the echoing repetition. They won't go. I have to raise my voice and insist: "Get down from the table, bus your dishes, and go wash up! Enough already!"

Fine. They get down, bus their dishes, and head off to the bathroom to wash up. I am holding my head and trying to maintain. Then suddenly Son 1 comes bouncing back into the room, feet together and hands together, being a kangaroo. I lose it. I chase him back into the bathroom. (He is squealing with laughter all the way.) I put my foot in the door before he can shut me out. And then I make a fist and start pounding him on his head and his back, as he sits down on the toilet and curls up to protect himself. In all, I probably hit him four or five times, no more than six. And I am pulling each blow -- I can guarantee on oath that they might cause pain but there is no way that any of them can possibly do any lasting damage. But still, my hand is a fist and they are blows.

A hundred years ago, nobody would have noticed, of course. But times have changed.

I probably don't have to add that the noise stops, almost instantly. The boys wash up, brush their teeth, all that sort of thing. A few minutes later, Son 2 comes out of the bathroom and just stands there, staring at me. Finally I ask, "What? I didn't hurt him." He says simply, "You hit Son 1." I reply, "But I didn't hurt him!" Son 2 walks away.

I go talk to Son 1, who is sitting on his bed reading. I ask him, "Are you wounded?"

"It hurts."

"But are you wounded?"

"No, I guess not."

"Can you tell your brother that?"

A few minutes later I go back in. Son 1 is still sitting on his bed, reading. I say, "Look, I'm sorry I hit you. I don't want to do that, and I don't want us to get to the point where we can only communicate by hitting each other."

Silence.

"Really, I'm sorry."

Son 1 grunts.

"But can you please do me a favor?"

"What?"

"I need some way other than hitting you, to let you know when I have really had enough and I can't take any more. Right now, I don't know how to do that. I don't have a good method. But I need some way to communicate that to you, so that next time I don't hit you again. Can you please think about it, and tell me something I can use? Something that will work for you, so you understand that I really can't cope with it any more? You don't need to tell me right now, but please tell me something. I need something I can use. Please."

Son 1 grunts again. And I leave his room.

Over the next 15 to 30 minutes, everybody else in the house goes to bed. Son 2 finishes his shower. Son 1 brushes his teeth. Wife decides that she is really exhausted and has to turn in early. Almost nobody speaks to me, nor I to them. Honestly, I am too ashamed of myself.

I also figure that this is the kind of event that will transmute into one of Wife's amazing stories about what a brute I am, and how I am always violently abusing the children, and how they live in constant terror of me. It could happen. Hell, it will happen. It is only a matter of time, and not too much time at that. Just you wait.

Oh well, what's the worst that can happen? I guess the worst possible case is that the authorities take away my children forever and lock me up somewhere as a menace to society; and at that point, at the very least, my life will be a lot simpler. So there is a silver lining to even the darkest cloud. Oh yes, and if we are constructing a worst case, then let's assume also that Wife divorces me and takes everything (because I am such a brute), and that D never wants to see me again. Hell, why not? If I'm imagining a worst case, why not go for broke? But then think of all the things I'd never have to worry about getting done. If you look at it right, the inevitable upcoming catastrophe has its positive side.

Oh, and let's also assume that all of you get disgusted enough nobody wants to read anything more that I have to write. That's always possible too, while I'm at it.

I suppose nothing is truly "inevitable." But some days it feels like it. So, how has your day been?