I'd made breakfast for everyone in the house before the sun rose. I kissed the husband goodbye and got the kids ready for the day.
"Okay guys, long sleeves and long pants," I said as I shooed them to their rooms, still cleaning the kitchen.
"Why? Where are we going?"
"What are we doing today?"
"Do dinosaurs have wives?"
"So what if I were a Christmas elf? Could I only come here after Thanksgiving!?"
All very important questions answered with only a few sighs of defeat from me. I was feeling pretty victorious.
By lunch, the peanut butter sammies had been made, cucumbers sliced, and oranges de-stringed, just in time for the dog to eat a rug in the other room.
Nap time was longer than usual and I napped too. With bed heads and alllllll the books read, we got up. All but the littlest who continued to rest.
That's when it happened. I snapped.
This isn't about being a yelling mom or discouraging yelling. It's not about taking a stance on gentle discipline or a lesson on why we shouldn't shame our kids.
That's all great information. I raise an extreme child. I've read all the academic studies, medical journals, and breaking reports on the effects of yelling, spanking, and everything in between. So I don't need your intervention, Karen.
In a perfect world, I'd follow all of those instructions every single time.
But in my world, on this day, things fell apart. I'm human. I'm the mom of an extreme child. And I'm far from perfect. We all are and I feel like it's time we start giving ourselves a break.
It was right after nap, while I was foggy-headed and trying to get the oldest to take his meds. I was explaining the idea of 'being considerate' as his little sister slept. His response was to laugh, he yell, and run sprints around the kitchen. She woke up.
Thats when I blew it.
Y'all, I yelled. Truth moment-I yelled and I swatted my kid in the back of the head because it was all I could reach in my breaking moment of motherhood fury.
Karen, step away from the number for CPS. No one was hurt...unless you count my feelings.
We both took a minute to breathe after he calmed from first screaming, name calling, and spitting. I apologized.
Friends, I'm not here to lecture anymore than to ask for forgiveness. It just is. This is life as an extreme parent. Heck, it's life as most neurotypical parents.
I can't smile or be Pinterest perfect all the time. I don't even want to be.
I want my kids to grow up in a home where they see that their parents are fallible. We make mistakes. It doesn't excuse our behavior but it does give them the grace to know that it's okay to mess up as long as we take a breath, admit our shortcomings, and humbly ask for forgiveness.
So, yep. I blew it today, friends.
But then I took a breath. I apologized to my son. We cried and hugged. I told my husband and best friend that I felt like garbage. And I picked the pieces up and began to attempt to put them together again.
Because that's what we do as parents. No one ever told us how hard this whole raising tiny humans gig would be because it would've been impossible to truly prepare us anyway.
So on days when you blow it--even you, Karen, because we ALL do--breathe. Accept. Admit. Apologize. And give yourself a do-over. We all need them from time to time and our kids deserve to grow up seeing that as normal.
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