Parenting P.T.S.D.

Through the car's Bluetooth speaker, I could hear my friend's two-year-old son screaming in that inconsolable high-pitched, piercing tone that sends my shoulders up towards my ears as if they could cover them and make the sound go away. Not because I was annoyed by them. But because the sound thrust me back six years in time like a nasty flashback to the trenches of early parenting. To a similar scene and a similar shrill scream from my own two-year-old son who would not stop shrieking on the same stretch of the 91 freeway as we drove away from Disneyland, the unhappiest place on Earth as far as he and me were concerned due to our mutual resentment that the other person had ruined their experience.

On my part, it was because I hadn't let him run freely through the park wherever the whim and mania led him but instead pushed through glaring throngs of people throwing apologies over my shoulder as I finally caught up to his surprisingly fast chubby legs before he threw himself onto the Dumbo ride. And I resented him for the stress and sweat pouring out of my exhausted and bent body as I held onto his squirming form and strapped him into the Ergo so I could make sure my five-year-old son was still standing in line with my friend and his two calm, angelic daughters.
Finally, physically and mentally done I pushed the double stroller on the long hike to the parking garage not wanting to deal with folding and dragging the stroller and two kids onto the tram as people watched, rolled their eyes, and commented under their breath instead of offering assistance. I ignored the aching pains in my shoulders, forearms, quads, and feet and just pushed on towards the freedom of the car.
Of course, in my irrational desire to leave, I hadn't figured on Orange and Riverside County traffic at four in the afternoon. Naturally, as soon as I was gridlocked on the freeway between a red river of brake lights going five miles an hour on a 100 mile journey back to the Coachella Valley, my two-year-old started howling for his life. He thrashed against his car seat restraints and knocked the peace offerings of juice and cookies and every other sugar and starch-laden goodies I could find in the snack bag. I tried playing a Wiggles DVD, sang songs to him, I think I even offered him a pony, a private jet, and a small island nation. Anything to quiet that angry squall smashing its way out of his cute little rosebud mouth. My body shook, my mind dashed for cover, only the automated lessons from driver's ed held fast as I cried with him. My five year old even joined in, first with complaints and later with his own frustrated tears as I finally pulled over at Tyler Mall in Riverside still an hour from home.
My little one calmed down, and we ate some dinner. I even let him run down the mall as his brother and I chased him hoping against hoping that he'd wear himself into a stupor. Finally, after an hour and a half with the realization that I could not live here and that my oldest and I really needed to get home and rest our frayed nerves, I got back in the car hoping the traffic had gone and that my little one would sleep. It was a futile hope because even at 8 o'clock at night, the traffic was still bad though maybe everyone was up to fifteen miles an hour and also because my youngest had only ever fallen asleep maybe three times in the car in his entire small life. In fact, he hated the car with a passion some religious zealots feel about the United States. He wanted to burn it to the ground and stomp on its image. He wanted to erase its existence from the Earth or his reality if possible. Even short trips to the grocery could be ordeals of torture for the both of us.
So as he began his now familiar scream, I steeled my nerves and locked my eyes dead ahead willing myself to drive from Point A to Point B but not before recording his unholy shriek on my phone so I could throw the evidence instead of my fist in the smug faces of the people who told me how much babies loved being in the car. Somehow, this one didn't. Fortunately, we made it home alive. He even fell asleep five miles before I entered my garage. I collapsed into a silent stream of tears against the steering wheel as my husband came out of the house and put both boys to bed.
As much as I would love to, I can never erase this memory and the dozens more like it from my youngest son's childhood. It reappears whenever I hear another child like my friend's toddler shrieking with a volume that belies their small lungs. I feel both empathy for the mother and a need to crawl into a small space and hide. My shoulders creep up, my spine tightens, even my abs brace for a punch. It reminds me of all the times I felt so helpless and worn out at the same time. Because I wanted to help my child and abandon it at the same time.
I want to the selfless mother, the one who is supposed to comfort and ease my child's problems, but I'm also the human woman unable to cope with yet another jarring and mentally exhausting experience. I can't bribe him, reason with him, nothing. I just have to accept it and go on. Because my efforts fall flat. Maybe that's the worst bit. I am powerless. This barrage of miserable, gut-wrenching noise and crying till he vomits will happen in spite of everything I try.
Even now, my youngest son still retains the power to reduce me to jelly. He was gifted or cursed with an all-encompassing, full-on emotive cry that embodies all the pain and helplessness of childhood. A few days ago at the waterpark, he began howling and holding his face as he screamed that it burned. I tried all my helpful mommy tricks in a quick succession as I felt myself retreating inwards away from the noise because I knew I wouldn't be able to solve his particular problem. Thankfully, the nice man at First Aid fixed it. Yet, there I was struggling to hold it together and not cry in front of my friends and strangers as once again my body reacted and retreated into a tightened and protective stance as I wished it all away. I love my son. More than anything in the world. But that scream, that terror will always shake me to my core and make me want to curl into a ball until it passes. His scream is my war memories, a time of helpless agony as a barrage of fear and pain rains down.