After infancy the raw, untutored sex drive is no more agreeable to the observer than any other neglected drive. The glutton who devours all within reach is but slightly better off than a joyless, picky eater. Given parental courage and fortitude, the "enfant terrible" is easier to ameliorate than the listless, constricted youngster. By adolescence, both extremes are quite recalcitrant to any treatment.
How do parents tolerate such extraordinary behavior?
They feel battered and hopelessly impotent. They are a fountain
of love and an endless supply of Band-aids. They assume
that children would be pleasant if free of conflicts and pressures.
Therefore they eliminate all possible stress and alleviate
every anxiety.
HENRY
Henry was the youngest of two children born to a part-time
psychology student in a small university town. His recently
divorced mother pedaled a bicycle barefoot to my office. She
looked as if she hadn't eaten for days. Jason, her outspoken
redheaded seven-year-old, was perched behind her on the
bicycle. Strapped to her weary body was a large, ungainly
lump of flesh. One hand picked at her shirt while the other
was plunged decisively in his mouth. Three-and-one-halfyear
old Henry distrustfully surveyed his environment.
Once seated in my office, the mother presented Jason as
my patient. Jason had been resentful of Henry ever since he
was weaned at the time of Henry's birth. Now Jason thought
he should be allowed to visit his father whenever he wished,
regardless of the time of day or his mother's other commitments.
If she refused, he walked the three miles by himself,
without even announcing his departure. To avoid problems,
the mother permitted Jason to remain at his father's. Just as
abruptly, Jason walked home.
While the mother talked, Henry remained strapped to her
body, forcing her to sit uncomfortably on the edge of the
chair. He fussed and poked his fingers in the crevice of her
blouse. Apologetically, the mother explained that she had fed
him only two hours before. She unbuttoned her blouse in
spite of my reassurance that I didn't mind if he cried. With
the speed of a snake, he seized the tiny breast and annihilated
it with his mouth. Almost immediately, his eyes turned
up, and still sucking, he sank into slumber.
The mother talked about Henry as he sucked. He was
heavy, awkward to carry, and predictably vociferous. She had
developed many strategies to outmaneuver him. She would
nurse him to sleep immediately before leaving to buy groceries.
Then she wrapped him tightly about her body so he
would not have access to her breast. With a full stomach, and
rocked by the pedaling of the bicycle, he slept all the way to
town. Once in the store he soon awoke, struggling against his
bindings.
To avoid criticism, she placed Henry in the cart and
attempted to distract him with a toy. Undaunted, he stood
precariously on the seat of the shopping cart, emitted piercing
shrieks, and snatched at his mother's shirt. His screams
became muffled grunts as she clasped him to her chest, burying
his body in her coat. She fled down the aisles, snatching
what groceries she could with one hand. Once she hid in a
mop closet to suckle her master.