My two and a half year old decided that 5:10 was the prime time for wake up this morning. And just let me repeat. Woofta.
Being a mom is a ride, being G’s mom is a roller coaster on Splash Mountain where your seat is a Tilt-a-Whirl. When we’re up, we’re way fucking up there, when we’re having a moment we’re in the trenches, basically climbing to Hell.
And yeah, in those moments, I feel like G could give Satan a run for his money.
My husband was out of town last night, so I had to do pick up, supper, soccer practice, bed time. Okay. No big deal. Single moms do it all the time. Other moms in our rural, agricultural based community do it all the time.
Shout out to single mamas, and farm wives, because bless you. It is fucking hard to do parenthood, especially parenthood of a toddler going through their independent stage, alone. Seriously. You deserve accolades, flowers, chocolate, copious amounts of wine, and then more.
And, on the note of that independent stage, it is in full effect in our house, but…only sometimes? Like sometimes it’s a full meltdown that G has to put his shoes. No help. A chorus of “I do it!”s. Others it’s a full meltdown because he wants help. “No! You do it!”
To put it bluntly: we can’t fucking win.
And last night, and this morning were no exceptions to this. It’s asinine. I lost my shit last night, yelled. Put myself in time out in the bathroom because I just fucking needed a minute, okay? To which my child responded by sitting outside the bathroom door SCREAMING at me. Not like angry toddler, frustration, like full out shrieking.
This morning, I tried to keep my cool. Tried to count. Tried to bargain. Finally yelled, “Just get your fucking coat and shoes!” Then I was like. What the fuck am I teaching my kid.
So I sat him down, and I apologized. And I told him I get angry when he doesn’t listen, but that doesn’t mean I should yell, because that probably hurts his feelings. To which he told me I needed to stand in the corner. So, I did.
Maybe that means I’m a bad parent. Maybe the swats on the butt mean I’m a bad parent. Maybe there’s no right answer.
Maybe, parenting is hard as fuck no matter what.
I think even parents of children who are basically angelic: who listen, do what they’re told, use their manners, etc. have these moments because we’re raising people. Individuals. Children who will grow up not to be extensions of ourselves, but people in their own right, who have to take a stand, who have to make decisions, who have to really like one thing or another. In toddlers, that thing is just a cup or toy.
It’s hard as fuck. But, even on the days where I’m exhausted, and drained, and frustrated, I recognize that G is a strong person in the making. He’s actually well-mannered, he’s friendly, he’s intelligent, he’s creative and imaginative, and he knows what he wants. Which can be frustrating, but is also a good skill for him to develop in his life.
But, damn, if I don’t don’t need a bulletproof vest, a hot cup of coffee, and the support of people who have been there while going through this ‘hood.
And, the snuggles from my toddler, or the sweet “sorry”s, because to be completely honest with you, they make up for most of the frustrating shit.