So, remember how I said the other day how I feel better when I write and get stuff out?
Well, here I am, with my phone and my Bluetooth keyboard, taking my lunch break in the Starbucks next door to my work, because I hope that writing about my failings will make me feel like less of a schmuck.
Here, let me share the text I sent to my hubby this morning:
Like my coworker (Hi, N!) said when I relayed this story to her this morning: Moms are human, too. It’s just that… I mean, yeah, it’s annoying when I have to tell my first grader to do something three times before he even acknowledges that I’ve spoken to him, but does it really merit raising my voice to him? Is that who I want him to think I am? He already hides under his sheets because he’s “scared” when I yell at him at bedtime for not listening.
Talk about feeling like a turd.
I also suspect that’s why he thinks it’s OK to pop off and yell out of nowhere when *he’s* mad: Mom does it. Maybe he doesn’t comprehend how mad I’m getting before I blow my top, even when I tell him in plain English that I’m getting really mad.
I guess what gets me the most irritated is that he’s capable of getting up with his alarm, following directions, and doing the morning routine without me nagging him… but only when there’s something exciting on the horizon. First week of school? Pajama day? He’s on it. I sure wish I could literally make every day special, but I can’t. By definition, I can’t. Special becomes mundane real quick.
I’ve been reading the parenting magazines and trying to figure out ways to streamline our morning routine… At this point, though, I think maybe he’s doing the best he can, and *I’m* the problem.
If I could just be patient with him and consistently keep my cool.
If I could just be Supermom.