Coercion of Young and Old
A scene from the Christmas beach vacation I just took with my son and his family, including my grandson, the just-about-to-turn-two Maximo. Max, at the hotel beach, has pretty much everything he needs: food, warmth, two pools, a sandy beach with the soft waves rolling in, plus the affections of his father, his mother and two grandparents.
Max in a good mood
And still he fusses. He has entered the ancient battle of the two-year-old, common if not inevitable: a test of will that continues, intermittently, from early morning to late at night. He wants things the way he wants them: exactly the right level of care and attention from his family, particularly his mother and father, as well as access to anything he deems interesting—such as the ball or plastic fish or toy cell phone of the people near us who have left those toys lying on their unoccupied beach chairs, and which we don’t want him to play with.
So what I see from Max, right there in paradise, is lots and lots of fussing. Mainly, I supposed, it’s his age, only days from turning two. But here he is complaining to his mother, demanding and complaining. He throws his little fire trucks down on the sand—the Tonka trucks he cannot do without. His mother has had enough of this, and doesn’t pick them up. He’s testing her patience, her love, her control.
Did kids do this in 1909? In 1409? Or is it a syndrome of a society where kids have everything? I don’t remember children in the indigenous parts of Guatemala, where they grow up swaddled and strapped to their mothers’ backs, throwing little fits of will like this. Of course, they didn’t have little Tonka trucks to toss about. But at the table, did they throw their food on the ground when they didn’t like it, or wanted some attention? I don’t remember seeing that, in my many travels through Central America..
In any case, Max is now driving his mother and father crazy, so I make him an offer: “Do you want to go in the water? We could go see the waves.” I’m sure he understands this, as I gesture toward the blue sea—but his answer is “No.” He’s after something right here, and has no interest in being sidetracked.
We have arrived at the rub, at the eternal question: Do I respect what he says and drop the idea of taking him to the water? Or do I just step in dominate him, pick him up bodily and make him do what I think will make him happier? One word from his mother—Please—and he’s in my arms, squirming and crying the forty steps to the water, crying as I wade in and stand in the small waves, then crouch down with him and put his feet on the sandy bottom. I’ve done this before and I know it works, because he loves the water. He stops crying. He feels the warm water slap at him as the waves come in, swirling with sand and bits of seaweed, pushing in and sacking out again, the tug of it pulling the sand out below our feet. He’s completely absorbed.
Two pelicans come gliding by and Max says “Birdy.” I say “Pelicans,” and he says something like “Pe-cns.” He’s happy, and all his complaints are forgotten. So the lesson would seem to be: Just do what I know is best for him. Don’t pay attention to what he wants or doesn’t want, just pick him up and move him bodily to a better scene.
But what if he’s not two, but five? Can I still pick him up and remove him bodily and plunk him down in the water? I could easily handle a five-year-old. But what about a ten-year-old? That would be a hopeless battle. Even a five-year-old would understand what I was doing, and would probably resist it fiercely. With a ten-year-old, forget it.
Now think about it with a fifteen-year-old. No, no, this dominance, this coercion only works with very young children, ones who aren’t old enough yet to hold on to their wills, their resentments, their sense of outrage.
And that is what made it so difficult to make my father do what he didn’t want to. The story was not so different. He’d be sliding down into a four o’clock sundowning, feeling lost and confused and depressed. The Cape Cod beaches weren’t far away, and if I could get him in the car we’d be there in ten minutes, and his mood would change completely. I knew this, I’d seen it many times. But I couldn’t sling my father over my shoulder and plop him in the car. I couldn’t lift him up by the belt and push him toward the door. I had to persuade him, and that did not come easy. I had to press him hard, I had to go against his will, his desires, his unhappiness.
The more I decided for my ageing father, the more powerless and helpless he became. And as I decided things for him, I felt that I was reducing him, that I was treating him like a younger and younger child. My father didn’t want to go to the beach. He didn’t flail around in my arms the way Max did, but he did not want to leave the house. If I could get him out to see the sunset at Red River Beach, I knew he’d forget about his malaise and hopelessness. But the next day he wouldn’t remember any of it and would fight me all over again about going back to the ocean, or to Cape Cod Bay where we watched the ducks and the lovely sweep of the gulls.
Coercion. It’s a fascination to me—and not just with kids or parents with Alzheimer’s. We coerce people all the time. We coerce our friends. We coerce, through politics, entire groups of people. As a nation we’re constantly trying to coerce other countries to do what we deem right. All this, as I’m walking over the beach past other hotel guests in their chairs, with Max crying and twisting in my arms as if I’m torturing him, makes the whole childraising debate more interesting. Over and over, Am I doing the right thing?
All in all, I had a lovely, soft, warm vacation with my family. Santa arrived in a convertible, the Grinch rode around on a bicycle and plunged into the pool with it, canned Christmas music played on little speakers disguised as stones—and I was entranced with the willful, gorgeous Maxito, who wound up with his arms around my neck, holding me as the warm waves pushed him around, and as he gained some confidence in the miniature surf.
Tags: Add new tag, alzheimer's, caregiving, coercion, dementia, sundowning, two-year-olds
