On the way to work this morning I was listening to podcast from Brené Brown with tears freefalling down my cheeks. She was talking about how vital it is to be vulnerable but that’s not why I was crying… I was filled with regret after a terrible morning with the boys.
But it was listening to her talk about the importance of sharing our stories because chances are that at least one other person out there is feeling the way you do or has felt the way you do. So, it’s with vulnerability in the driver’s seat and courage riding shotgun that I share how no matter what intentions I set for the day, I could not fulfill them and to say to other parents out there, you are not alone.
Connor was up and down last night, needing to go to the bathroom and having bad dreams, so I was already dragging during my morning workout when he got up early and was super cranky. (Side note: I have to get food in him the moment he wakes or he is HANGRY! Not feeding him immediately can result in screaming, crying, thrown objects and an exhausted mom.) It took some extra coaxing and extra chocolate milk but we found our rhythm soon enough—and then Liam was up.
We have a rule that they have to eat breakfast at the table in the kitchen without toys or distractions on school days and YET this is broken every. single. day. Before I could put Liam’s cereal bowl down, the space filled with LEGO Ninajo guys and a LEGO catalogue and his homework which he didn’t finish last night. I move everything over to another table and we start again. And he is off like a shot, running down to the playroom to get “something” with me calling after him that he has 20 minutes to eat and finish his math before brushing his teeth. 5 minutes go by, I call again. And now there is 10 minutes left—I am starting to see red and demanding that he get upstairs, my voice getting louder and shriller.
Now he's at the table, but everything is distracting him. Connor. Toys. Pencils. Lights. I re-direct, re-direct, re-direct. He is in and out of his seat. And now Jesse is downstairs, he re-directs, re-directs, re-directs. Our voices are rising every time because we are trying to break through to him, but he isn’t hearing us, we are as effective as white noise. And just like he’s out of time with one bite of cereal eaten and half a math page done—and he blows his top, he screams that we are the worst parents and all he wants to do is look at his LEGOs—is that so wrong?
At this point my pulse is thudding in my head, I am going to be late for work. I want to really scream, like LOUD, but I can see the yelling isn’t work, so I (painfully) calmly ask him to show me his stop sign and take a belly breath and think about what he wants to do next. He throws something and says he hates me.
And in an instant, I am scooping up LEGOs that will be taken away from him as a punishment, grabbing his wrist and escorting him to the bathroom to brush his teeth, he’s sputtering and crying, while I rage on about disrespect and how that makes me feel and blah blah blah.
The next 15 minutes are blur of yelling, apologies, reassuring Connor, snow pants, crying, snacks, boots, coats and then backpacks are on and they are gone. In the very-sudden-quiet I turn and see that Connor’s water bottle is on the table and then I am outside racing after them, waving a Hulk bottle like a mad woman.
Liam stops me and says, I am really sorry for everything today, I didn’t mean what I said, I love you. I kiss both of them goodbye, grateful to have the chance to that.
I get in the car, start driving and burst into tears. Everything every therapist, doctor, teacher, aide rushes at me—yelling doesn’t work, they don’t hear when you repeat, you must re-direct, use the stop sign, make him breathe, time doesn’t mean the same to him that it does for you. And feel the self-loathing crush my shoulders like a weighted blanket of shame and sadness. For a second I indulge the grossness of this sensation and wonder what other families’ mornings are like. Do their kids just get out of bed and eat breakfast? Do their kids have ADHD? Do they have a slow processor? And the moment I start wondering, I realize it doesn’t matter, bathing in self-pity is pointless because I have a great kid that just requires a little extra. And my heart was suddenly very heavy knowing I wasn’t able to give him that extra today…
In my mind, I know there are bad times, days when I am tired and can’t give it my all, but I also know how quickly things can spiral out of control and wish I could go back and try it again. Sitting here I am so bone-tired, emotional drained and craving chocolate. But I will pick myself, do some work, re-affirm my intentions and be better when I get home because I know if I can be better, Liam will be better, Connor will be better, then we all will be better.
And you know what? A little bit better is a little bit better and that is all that matters, today and always.