Not having any desire to deal with the resultant mess, I took a cleaned and re-jammied child into my bed for the rest of the night (lovely Hubband put the sheets in the wash).
The two hours that followed can only be described as a beat-down. It was like a tiny death-match. Flailing limbs, arms, legs, noggin rained down upon me like the tiny crashing waves of fury. Sprout would roll over, and his arm, flung with sleepy abandon, would crack like a whip into the back of my skull. Two tiny three-inch feet, thrust in slumbering unison with contradictory velocity directly into my unsuspecting kidneys. At one point he actually head-butt (head-butted?) me directly on the bridge of the nose. I have no idea what made him so active but he would not. fall. asleep.
I tried a number of times to politely request that he desist with his abuse. Calm, quiet, monotone mommy:
Silently, I would clutch the pillow and will myself to sleep. I had had a long day at work. One more long day loomed, with clients, and issues, and divorces and legallegallegal words. The green numbers glowingly mocked me as they slid past on their inexorable march toward infinity. I was a zombie. I was going to be a zombie. All I wanted to do was SLEEP.
"Buddy, I'm going to need you to lay more still, okay?"
"Hey, stop flailing around so much, okay Bug?"
"Sweetie, it makes mommy's kidneys hurt when you kick her like that, m'kay?"
The third kidney-punch in one night was apparently too much for my fragile sleep-deprived psyche. I rolled over:
"SPROUT YOU WILL STOP MOVING AROUND RIGHT NOW OR YOU ARE GOING TO BE IN BIG TROUBLE MISTER. RIGHT NOW. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"
His big, brown doe eyes opened wide and the cutest, softest smallest voice ever responded:
And that is why I am the Worst Person in the World."yes."
I can completely and totally relate to this post. I feel like this at least 10 times a day when I raise my voice at Lucy for not putting her coat away fast enough or not flushing the potty. I think that I make it even harder on myself, because after Bella passed away I "promised" myself that I wasn't going to raise my voice anymore. This is simply because now when I look back on her short 16 months on earth, I think of the times when I got upset about the toys she dumped in the middle of my clean floor or the tiny hand
ReplyDeleteprints she left all over the shiny glass door and I wish more than anything now that there were toys dumped in the middle of my clean floor or her tiny hand prints all over the shiny glass door. I wish this so much, that in almost 7 months I haven't cleaned the mirror by my bed that she put her cookie covered hands all over one morning as we laid in my bed playing peek a boo. As long as I own that bed, that mirror will never be cleaned again. Here's the thing though, we're not perfect, we're parents. I stole that from Noggin, btw. I try to remind myself of that when I start to feel bad about raising my voice. And I realize that there are certainly more times that my voice isn't raised, than times that it is. So, know that you're not alone...and you're certainly not the worst person in the world :)
Oh honey. You are not the worst person in the world. You are dedicated enough to even commit to *having* a child, something that I don't think I am able to do.
ReplyDeleteAlso, sometimes being nice just doesn't cut it. A little fear every so often is probably an okay thing. I'm sure you love him enough and are kind enough most of the time to more than make up for it!
I feel like this several times a day. Especially since Nora turned three. I've been trying to be more patient, but sometimes I just don't have any! You aren't the worst person in the world by far!!
ReplyDeleteOh, and your first comment made me bawl. Off to fix my racoon eyes.
Just so you know...that would be considered "nice Mommy" in this house. I don't deal well on a lack of sleep, believe me. Don't feel bad. He needed to know you meant business.
ReplyDeleteSorry, but you are not the Worst Person in the World - you know the Worst Person in the World is on Toddlers & Tiaras.
ReplyDelete