Lately, I’ve been sweating a lot of the small stuff. I’m missing the big picture.
If I were to be any other item, I think it would be a match. Quick to ignite, and then quickly cool off – if I don’t catch on anything else before then.
My patience has taken a vacation. I hope it went somewhere nice. I really need to get it to come back. This weekend, while many parts were wonderful, many were pock-marked by outbursts. Mine. The monkey’s. The Man’s.
I hate yelling, especially over the dumbest things (like to just get the monkey’s to listen!). I hate repeating myself 98,553 times, just to tell them to get their shoes on or to complete a simple chore.
Is this the way it is? Seriously? Is this the way child-raising has to be?
Or, are my expectations out of line with where they should be?
And of course, the cherry on top this weekend, was as it was winding down, I got a bath started. The Monkey’s hopped in, and I got them settled, then went about my tasks, getting ready for the week. I went to put the art supplies away, and stepped in a puddle in the dining room. I huffed, somebody spilled their juice. Went and got something to clean it up, and went back to prepping for the week. I checked on the boys and they were fine. Then, back to the kitchen.
Not even two minutes later, I head back to the bathroom, to wrap up bath time. I come around the corner to a flying cup of water, and a floor covered in standing water.
I lost my cool. (Parent of the year, over here)
I quickly dried the monkey’s off, and sent them to their room. Scolding. Yelling. Beyond frustrated.
They cried and went to bed quickly after getting dressed.
Then the house fell quiet.
And, the guilt kicks in.
I don’t want to be that monster. Yelling over water? Really?
So, in case I was in the running for mother of the year, there are no worries now. The honor can go to a mom who doesn’t yell about shoes, not running in the parking lot of a busy store, and a few cups of spilled water out of the tub.
And, in case I didn’t feel bad enough…As I was writing this post, my dad called. He asked where everyone was (since he could tell the very OBVIOUS silence, since I was holed up in my room with the door shut). I told him what happened, in tears, as I listened to him laugh on the other end of the line. He kept reminding me he remembers a little girl who would do the same things…and ended the conversation saying “Little kids, little problems. Big kids, big problems.”
I need to get my sh*t together.