By SHAUNA ANDERSON
I have the loveliest four year old in existence. He crawls into my bed in the early hours of the morning clutching his stuffed green dragon and says: “cuddle me Mama.”
He plays dolls with his baby sister and dinosaur slayers with his older brother.
He yells passionately across the soccer field “I love you Mama” with a four year old’s lack of self-consciousness.
He paints flowers on erupting volcanoes at preschool.
And he hits other children.
I never thought I’d have a child who hit. I always thought I’d be able to control my children no matter what.
But from the age of two, despite trying to distract him, punish him, encourage him, he still hit. He never bit but he hit and pushed and threw things.
My angel was that child other mothers talked about and avoided. The play dates dried up, the kids stopped dropping in, the mums in the playground started standing on the other side. I became that woman at playgroup who followed her child around, on edge. At home he was fine, but at preschool he was struggling. No one wanted to play with the hitter.
It wasn’t until his preschool teacher suggested I take him to a speech therapist that things changed. It turns out that no one could understand him and hitting was his way of getting attention. Nine months into speech therapy he’s a different boy. He has friends, he smiles. We have a way left to go, and the play dates haven’t yet started dribbling in. But he’s happy.