With the help of a book entitled Writing Motherhood, by Lisa Garrigues, I write this post.
Jeez, he’s only 2 years old what could I really have done, what outrageous act, or one of omission, could I really be accused of? He punched me in the chest tonight, right below my neck, as I dragged him to his bed for the thousandth time. And I plopped him in, again, for the 15th time in the past minute. Yes, I read to him about dinosaurs. Not just about tricerotops and the mighty T-rex but about the apatosaurus and iguanadon, diplodocus and parasaurolophus.
I can’t always reconcile my fake nice self with how I really feel but he doesn’t experience that so much. He doesn’t know about sarcasm. He’s not aware of the way I roll my eyes and walk away while people are still talking to me. But kids are intuitive. They sense tension and they pick up more than we initially give them credit for even at an early age.
Crying in front of him and fighting with my husband in front of him are my gravest concerns. Eventually, it will be slightly more okay, at least the crying, because he should understand that I’m human and not a rock. But my self control seems very important to his stability and it plays into the consistency, boundaries, and routine that make his days predictable and safe so that he can be the one to test limits, push boundaries, and explore.
The last time I brought him into bed tonight I said, “enough is enough.” I threw in white bear and big brown bear and jammed his blanket in the corner of the bed. He pulled his pillow over himself and said, “goodnight daddy,” still goofing around.
I’m pregnant (my standby excuse) and I wasn’t nice to him after an hour and a half of in and out of bed. If it wasn’t for the fact that he’s night trained for bathroom use, he’d be in his crib. Be careful what you wish for.