toddlers and other things that go bump in the night

Captain’s Log…July 28, 2014


Before we get started, let me just confess that I have been drinking some pretty liberal bourb-a-lurb-a-nades and may not be fit to fly this ship. With that out of the way….

Toddlers…let me tell you about toddlers.

I like toddlers, as long as I do not have to live with them. Toddlers are diabolical. Severely deranged and possibly evil. Again, I have had quite a few snorts of bourbon—mostly, but not entirely, because of toddlers.

Today, the shrieking pee-bot dropped my laptop on the ground, destroyed my ink block for my art, raided my art box, peed on my pillow, ate the cat’s food, ate a fistful of butter, stole her father’s coffee, dumped milk all over the furniture and floor while I put the baby down for a nap, took down her eight year old brother by grabbing a fistful of his hair as he tried to get in his seat in the car, tormented her very sensitive eight year old brother repeatedly as he tried to reason with her, raided her brother’s Lego collection, spat food all over the floor of any room she happened to be in, tortured the baby—repeatedly, and many other things that I have most likely blocked out.

I am toast. I am done. I am defeated. Quite clearly defeated. Between the shrieking pee-bot and Thing Two, I am ready to turn in my motherhood membership card.

How many times in a day can one mama hear, “You’re an idiot! I hate you! I wish you never existed!” mixed in with “Nobody loves me. You all hate me. You want me to starve to death”? (said after I fed him a lunch that he rejected.)

I am so tired of trying to remain calm. I am so tired of using the soft, “let’s be reasonable” voice. I am so tired of re-assuring him as he attacks me. So tired of saying, “It is not okay to say that to me. I do not like your saying that to me,” and it seemingly falling on deaf ears.

Is this even working?

I’m sure I’m not supposed to just burst into tears and collapse on the floor.

That’s probably the wrong approach.

Is he going to remember me as his weepy mama? Is he going to resent crying women because of me? Is he going to learn to tune out other people’s pain because mine keeps splashing out of me?

God, I’m tired of feeling like a failure. Did I do something wrong? I know I love him. I love him to bits. I would do anything for him. Yet, somehow, I have failed him…and he is this angry little beast. Eyes red and wet yet squinted at me in anger and hate. I would die for him. Doesn’t he know that? I would lasso the moon for him. How is it that I could have possibly failed him in six short years?

There is hope though. Every time I call him in for a hug—he comes. He plays the tough guy, but he still wants a hug from me.

There is still hope.

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