It's true. Sometimes I simply stink as a mom.
I get frustrated when my son wants to play, but I want to finish a blog post, or take a bath, or write in my journal, or talk to my mom on the phone.
I want to scream when he whines and squeals because he says his glove isn't on the right hand (even though it is) and I have to fix it for him, only to have him scream again that it still isn't right.
I want to run upstairs, slam the bedroom door and have a good cry when clamps his mouth shut, buries his head in the recliner, or tries to hide under the dining room table to avoid taking his antibiotic.
I even rolled my eyes this afternoon when he asked me to go for a walk with him -- something I was sure his father had put him up to because for once these last few days I had gone upstairs to steal a few moments to myself. But his father hadn't put him up to it. He wanted to go on a walk with me.
Me. The ungrateful, selfish, stinky mommy who internally grumbled because I was in the middle of trying to add a new header to my blog when he asked.
We walked, we talked about what we saw (the most exciting part for him being the moment the neighbor's dog almost peed on us. I had no idea a 10-year old Husky could raise his leg that fast. Seriously.)
After our walk and a cup of hot cocoa, you would think I would have learned my lesson about being ungrateful and selfish, but I didn't. Later, I was annoyed because he wanted me to play with him in his tent. I can't fit in his tent. Why couldn't he understand that? Why wouldn't he just stop asking me to crawl in when I couldn't fit?
But then he was laughing and I was laughing and the frustration faded.
And after that I was annoyed in the evening, when he wouldn't just poop on the potty already instead of crying and saying "I tan't! I tan't!" and finally going in his training pants after much struggling.
Finally relieved of his discomfort he feel fast asleep against me and the guilt settled hard in my chest.
Why do I get so frustrated? Why do I feel anger toward him over situations he can't control?
He's three. He's beautiful. He's smart. He's funny.
He's my son.
He deserves better than a stinky mom and I hope he sees that most days he gets much better than what he did on Sunday.
