For the last year, I've been struggling with Eli hurting me physically: slamming into me, hitting me, and most recently, biting me. When he's feeling upset, needy, angry, or tired, or when my attention is directed elsewhere — in an adult conversation, on the phone, toward his sister — he chews on my clothes or forces his head under my shirt, stretching it beyond repair. Other times, he hangs on my body, impeding my footsteps with his dead weight around my ankles. I hate it when he does these things. They are my gorilla buttons, the things that annoy me most. Hurting me, obstructing my mobility, or biting my clothes never fails to elicit my deepest anger and my sharpest words.
      Yet he continues to do these things and ignores my entreaties to stop. When he rams into me and I tell him not to, he asks me, "Why?" I say, "Because it hurts me." At which point, he repeats, "Why?" A little louder and more irritated, I repeat, "Because it hurts me! It doesn't feel good on my body!" Again, he asks the question, "Why can't I do it?"
      At this point, any semblance of patience on my part disappears. I am not only hurt, I am exasperated and angry. Usually, the situation degenerates from there. I have yelled at him, shoved him away, and squeezed him too hard. Other times, to keep us both safe, I've barricaded myself in the bedroom, bracing myself against the door while he screams on the other side: "I hate you! I'm never going to be with you again!"
      Afterwards, humbled and shaken, I'm left asking myself, "Why does he hit me when he's never been hit himself? Why does he seek out negative attention when he gets so much positive attention every day? Why does he intentionally keep hurting me? What drives him to repeatedly do the very things I hate most?"

      At my bimonthly parent group with Janis Keyser, I describe the situation and ask for ideas. Janis thinks for a moment, then says, "Eli's not satisfied with your answer, 'because it hurts me.' He's asking a deeper question. He's asking about all those invisible things that exist in human relationships. Kids always question things we take for granted. When Eli asks, 'Why can't I hit you?' he's trying to figure out how the world of relationships works. He's asking for a real explanation. By now, he's old enough to understand that hitting physically hurts you. Now what he's asking is, 'Why shouldn't I hurt you? Why shouldn't I hurt other people?' He wants a deeper answer, and I think you should give it to him.
      "Eli loves concepts and ideas. He loves language. Teach him about empathy and reciprocity. Explain to him why we treat people with caring and respect."

      Janis knows me. She knows Eli and his precocious interest in big words. I think her approach might work. So the next morning, I crawl up to his top bunk and say, "Eli, I want to talk to you about something. You know that problem we have — when you hurt me or annoy me and then I get mad at you?"
      Eli nods. "Yeah."
      I continue, "And you know how you always ask me why you shouldn't hurt me?"
      Eli nods again. "Yeah."
      "Well, I wanted to tell you some of the reasons you shouldn't do that anymore — not to me, not to Mama Karyn, not to Lizzy, not to anyone."
      "Okay, Mama. Tell me why."
      "The first reason is called empathy. Empathy means caring about how other people feel. When you reach a certain age, you realize that other people have feelings. When you have empathy, you care about how people feel. You don't want them to be hurt. You care when they feel sad. When you were a baby and a toddler you didn't have empathy. But now that you're almost five, you're ready to start caring about how people feel.
      "The second idea is called reciprocity. That's the idea that people treat each other the way they want to be treated. I talk to you with respect because I want to be treated respectfully. I say, "please" and "thank you" to you because I want you to say them to me. I listen to your ideas without interrupting because I want you to do the same thing when I'm talking.
      "Empathy and reciprocity. Those are two important ways people treat each other."

      There's a long silence. Eli is quiet, taking in all those words. Finally, into stillness, he says, "You know what's really weird, Mama? Sometimes I want to hit and I want to snuggle at the same time. Isn't that weird, Mama?"
      "It is strange, isn't it?" I reply. Then I ask, "What can you do when you feel that way?"
      "Snuggle," he replies, cuddling closer.
      "Then what about the part of you that wants to hit?"
      "Oh, I can just hit a couch or something." He pauses, "The next time I want to hit you, I'll just stop myself."
      "What if you can't stop yourself?"
      "I'll just move away or find a big pillow to hit."

      Reality being what it is, I'm sure Eli's early morning resolve won't magically change things. He'll still feel driven to poke my gorilla buttons and provoke my rage. He'll lash out when Lizzy pulls his hair, knocks down one of his creations or simply gets too close. But at least a seed has been planted. With care and feeding, I hope it someday bears the fruits of gentleness, self-control and compassion.