I have so much to say in this post, but I doubt I’ll get it all out. Or, maybe I should say, I doubt I’ll get it all across the way I want it to come across. (Is that right? Even that sentence sounded not right, but I don’t know how else to say it. I apologize if the rest of this post goes that way, too.)
I just experienced a really strange evening with my toddler. After his brother was put to bed, Monster just started crying like a mad man. For no apparent reason. After a couple (too many) of minutes of this I generally put him in his room to cool off. This usually works.
Tonight, it didn’t.
An hour and a half, and two “step-ins” later, he was still crying. Finally I gave him an choice: calm down and come downstairs to eat his dinner (which had been keeping warm in the oven the whole time), or calm down and go to bed. He chose the latter.
After some tooling around his room, talking about inane things, I finally got him to let me help get him into his PJs and in bed. He seems fine now.
I have no idea what just happened. I’m beyond puzzled, and a little bit irked.
This is not the only puzzling thing to be happening lately. Bug has recently decided to scream bloody murder throughout his dinner – also for no apparent reason. Stopping for a moment here and there to take a bite.
It’s like he’s hungry, and wants to eat – but at the same time abhors the whole experience. He’s fine before I put him in the high chair and after I take him out. And just a few days ago, he was fine with the whole experience. I just don’t get it.
I don’t get it.
The worst part is, their crying really gets to me. I mean, heart-pounding, adrenaline-pumping, making-me-crazy, gets to me. Either one of them, if crying for more than a minute or two makes it feel like a bomb inside of my head starts to tick down. When it explodes, so do I. And I have to leave the room. Leave them screaming. Until I have cooled down.
I so often question my capacity to actually be a mother during these times. I ask myself why in the world I ever thought this was a good idea. I wonder what my life would be like right now had I not had them (and I usually answer myself saying it probably would have been the right choice). What was I thinking?
Please, don’t get me wrong. I love them. I do. But these thoughts come to me. More often than I’d like to admit. Was I meant to be a mom?
It makes me distance myself from them. The less time I spend actually in the room with them, the less time they spend crying, for some reason. It’s not like I’m beating them or anything (I’m not – really.), they just cry more when I’m near them. You can ask my husband, it’s true. And I just. Don’t. Get. It.
I want to spend time with them. I want to help them learn and grow. When they start crying just because I’m present, though, it’s like a punch in the stomach. It makes me really dread being in the same room with them. The two don’t go together.
I’m tense all over. My body aches because of how I hold myself during the days. I clench my jaw even during my sleep anymore. Will I ever be able to relax again?
People often tell me how I’ll miss these years when my boys are little. Some day, when the boys have grown to teenagers, or adults with families of their own, I’ll look back and say “Oh, how I miss that.” To that, I say, no. I’m pretty damn sure I won’t. Not this. Not in a million years.
I’m sorry if this feels like a pity-me post. It’s not supposed to be. I just need to vent and get this out, because it’s balling up in the pit of my stomach like some poison, and it’s beginning to kill me.
Did anyone else have these problems, or feel this way when their children were small? It would be nice to know I’m not alone… That this does have an end.
Goddess, I hope it ends…