But that little person in our lives, who is developing more of his own ideas about how the world should cater to his needs, is not a morning person. And is definitely not a Monday person. And woe the parent (me) who has to wake him up and get us out of the house on time.
I stop outside his door, firming up my resolve to stay patient, since there is no way of knowing if it will be Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde that will answer my cheery “good morning, sunshine!”
Crap. I got Mr. Hyde. In a big way.
(in my best chirpy tone) “Good morning Colin!”
“No mama, sleepy now.”
(oh no, not again) “Sorry bud, we need to get up now.”
“NO MAMA. SLEEPY NOW!”
(I try a tactic that worked last week) “Hey, the suns out, wanna go see the sun?!”
“NO SUN. LIGHTS OFF NOW.”
(new tactic) “Let’s go play at Donna’s, she’ll have a yummy breakfast for you!”
“No Ghanna. Me nigh nigh. NO EAT!!”
(Shit. This is going to suck. Deep breath.) “Okay sweet pea, up we go”
And as I reach in to haul him out of his crib, I suddenly have my hands full of a screaming banshee doing his best to kick me in the head.
A full on wrestling match ensues as I try to get him dressed while his anger escalates to howling rage and my temper dissolves into ugliness as our shared trait of blockheaded stubbornness clashes on the changing table.
I then have to haul his flailing body safely down two flights of stairs and then more grappling to get his unresisting body strapped into the car seat, during which he’s hurling gut-deep howls right into my ear. I just hope he doesn’t barf on me. The drive to Donna’s is tense to say the least, as I keep up innane chatter about birds and sun in an effort to calm him down. His backseat snuffles rise into howls yet again as we pull into the driveway. Donna assures me, yet again, that he will be just fine as soon as I leave, and he always is. And I hold back the tears yet again as I one-part race and one-part hesitate out the door.
Mornings like this leave me exhausted, depressed and ready to climb back into bed for another few years. I can find no humor in the situation beyond the sheer "what the hell" craziness of the tantrum. No solace in the fact that he will likely have no memory of these fine Mondays.
Because the what ifs and whys start their insidious creeping in my brain. What if I'm having a negative impact on him? Why can’t I be more patient? What if this is more than just tantrums? Why doesn't he do this to Rob? Why can’t I stay home all the time, and why don’t I want to? What if he remembers me as a mean mommy? What if my priorities are all out of whack? Why don’t I just get to work late and hope my boss is running late too? What if I’m the only one that feels like/acts like this? Why do I let my guilt over job issues compete with my desire to have a happy well-adjusted bumble?
And so my week begins. I need
No comments:
Post a Comment