On Saturday, we took Elijah to the Post Office to apply for his passport. As soon as we got there, we realized that Saturday at noon before a Monday holiday is not usually the best time to go to the Post Office. There was a line. We placed third, behind two families with several children each. I saw a twitch of restlessness in Elijah's eyes. We foolishly hadn't brought along any books or toys with us.

It was determined that Regina would wait in line while I took Elijah to the bank. Elijah proclaimed that he didn't want to go to the bank. I told him that I'd carry him there on my shoulders. That won the day.

The bank, which is actually a cash machine inside a Von's, was across the street. As usual, Elijah wanted to "help" me by inserting various things and pushing various buttons. On the way back to the Post Office, we had the last good conversation of the day.

"Daddy," he asked. "What happens to the antelope you put inside the cash machine?"

"The what?"

"The skinny white antelope."

"Oh," I said. "You mean the envelope."

"Envelope," he said. "What happens to it?"

"Well," I said, "the bank takes it out of the machine and then they process the check and send it back to the people who sent it to me, and then I get some money and they take some money away from the other people."

"Then what happens?" he asked.

"Hopefully, someone sends me another check."

By the time I got back to the P.O., it was 12:30. Only one other family blocked our path. A little girl about Elijah's age sat in her mother's lap, playing nicely with a stuffed dog. Her brother, a boy who couldn't have been older than eight, played with one small Aqua Raider Lego figure. Elijah, on the other hand, ran to a wall of packing supplies and began throwing antelopes all over the floor.

As punishment, Regina removed Elijah from the scene, took him to a room at the far end of the Post Office, and made him sit in a corner until he apologized. By the time they returned, the other family had gone into the office. A few minutes passed before Elijah decided to knock over a cardboard cutout of a mailman.

"That's it," I said. "You're out of here."

"Neal," said Regina. "You can't take him away. It's almost our turn."

"He has to learn."

"Learn what?"

"Not to do that."

I picked Elijah up by the armpits.

"NOOOOOOO!" he shrieked. "Don't pick me up! Don't pick me up!"

Two minutes later, after I'd situated him in a corner, I heard Regina's voice from across the Post Office, loud and full of rage.

"NEEEEEEEEEEEEEEL!"

My heart turned black and henpecked. I hope that none of you has ever had your name yelled across a crowded Post Office. The multicultural crowd of dozens turned in my direction. All at once, I could hear their collective thoughts. They went: Who are these strange semi-Jews?

As soon as we got into the passport office, which was manned by a no-nonsense woman well into middle age, Elijah ran over to her desk and started messing up papers.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I said.

He looked at me with crazy defiance, squirted around me, whipped open a side door, and ran out into the employees-only area. I chased after him. By this point, I had lost all use of my forebrain. Between his shrieking and Regina's haranguing, I'd been emotionally lobotomized.

"COME BACK HERE!" I shouted. "NOOOOOOOOOOOW!"

I left Regina to deal with the bureaucracy. Elijah twisted and shrieked in my arms. I dragged him into the main Post Office. He landed a foot on an elderly lady's shoulder. She jumped in surprise.

Then we were outside, and Elijah was bawling because I'd sat him in a corner where the sun was in his eyes. Elijah responds to the sun in his eyes in the same way that Lestat would. Nothing was working. Nothing would work. So I dragged him back in, to the collective judgmental glare of the gathered. I was a man humiliated, gelded, incompetent.

Back inside the office, we finished our paperwork while Elijah left dirty footprints on the wall. There was nothing that could be done. We had to finish the errand, and there was no way to punish right there.

As we walked out, to even greater glares, I apologized to the old woman.

"That's OK," she said. "Kids are like that."

But are they?

Elijah's been sick. His sleep schedule is off from the post-holiday time-change. He also hasn't been eating. In addition, he's been pretty well-behaved the last month, at least at home, which means that Regina and I haven't been as firm with the discipline. So. Is he testing us? Is he off? Is he a little bit nuts? Or is it some combination?

On Sunday afternoon, we went over to my sister's house because I wanted to watch the Suns-Pistons game. There was one meltdown because Elijah pulled a bunch of books off a shelf and refused to clean them up. A more serious one occured because Elijah didn't like the way his cousin was playing Candy Land. My brother-in-law and I staggered about the house like civilians in war, trying futilely to survive and control Elijah's wrath.

Then, today, New Year's Day, we took Elijah to the zoo. Before we left, I told him explicitly that he had to either walk or ride in the stroller, and that we wouldn't buy him lunch. From the moment we got there, he naturally began to beg for lunch, and for me to pick him up. But I'd set the rules, and I had to hold to them, as trivial as they might have been. The begging increased in intensity and volume. By the time we reached the monkeys, it had turned into a monsoon.

Suddenly, Elijah charged into a crowd of people and hit a stranger on the butt. I picked him up and walked away in a fury. The man he hit laughed. Then I put Elijah down and he ran over to a teenage boy and hit him on the butt.

We strapped Elijah nto the stroller. He screamed and blubbered. I walked forward, jaw clenched, head shaking, inventing severe punishments in my head.

Instead, we drove home without talking to the boy, which he hated. We did, however, tell him what was about to happen, and why. A temper tantrum is one thing. A temper tantrum combined with disobeying us is another. Also, you really shouldn't hit strangers in public, or anytime, really, but especially in public. When we got home, we shut Elijah in his room for nearly half an hour. When we released him, he apologised. He kissed us both, unbidden, and told us he loved us.

We'd stood up to a four-year-old. Hooray for us, right? But that's a lot harder to do than it sounds. Still, maybe this time we really dumped a bucket on the fire. Maybe we won't have any more incidents like this weekend's. And maybe Alternadad will win the Pulitzer Prize for nonfiction.

Meet the New Year. Same as the Old Year.

Posted by at 12:37 PM | Permalink