I am far from perfect. Really far.
As I type this, my husband is in the other room, avoiding me. We have not had nice words to say to one another in over a day and even the "nice" words turned sour at some point leaving us having had yelled at one another. We are not doing well.
One of my Littles is in his bed. Sleeping. It is 4:34, which means he should be with his brothers, eating veggie chips and watching Phineas and Ferb. Instead, Precious Little Boy was sent to his room where I plan on keeping him all day, save dinner and teeth brushing.
I am writing in the middle of the day (which I try not to do because *gasp* I am not like one of those moms who plays on her computer when her children are awake). Yes, I am so judging you, moms who give updates on your Facebook page by the hour when you should be interacting with your kids. But, whatever, I don't want to be judged, I just want to judge, if I am being honest.
Little Sleeping One has a Thursday appointment at the library for an intro to Kindergarten class. He really enjoys going, and I get it because I have watched him interact with the children and turn all fan-boy when his teacher, Mr. George, walked past us at the library the other day. He adores going. It is fun. It is educational. It is entertaining.
Then today.
Today this kiddo got upset when he saw that his baby brother (who will be turning 3 soon), was carrying a brand new $3 car with him. I allowed baby brother to pick one out at Walmart today and he was affectionately holding onto it when we picked 5-year-old up from Pre-K.
Enter tantrum.
"Why does he get something? Do I get something? Why does he get something and I get nothing???"
It was full-on yelling, crying, hiding in the corner of the vehicle as far from me as possible.
It was me trying to explain, it was me losing my patience and giving warnings, it was me getting frustrated because WHAT THE HECK?
And then the thoughts:
Greedy
Selfish
Rude
I was pretty angry with that situation but had mostly calmed down (as did my 5-year-old-Lovebug) when big brother got home. Big brother got off the bus and I instantly saw the tears in his eyes.
One of the girls on the bus has said hurtful things to him in the past, so I asked there, in the presence of my son, the driver, and the bully-girl, "what happened?"
Turns-out the bully-girl was playing a game and, although my big kid won a chocolate, (which she brought as a reward) another kid on the bus won something similar to a Ferrari, a trip to Rome, and a Happy Meal; a.k.a. more than one piece of chocolate. My big kid was a mess.
It was so unfair.
By the time he calmed down just briefly, and the bus rolled away, I could feel the blood burning in my body.
Greedy
Selfish
Rude
Why couldn't he just be happy for the candy he got? It seemed to me that it was kind of her to offer him that in the first place.
Biggest kid's tears elicited concerns from my Previously Crying Kiddo who learned that big brother was crying because he got a piece of chocolate and wanted more. This brought-forth the Niagara falls of Preschooler who was shunned that day, not by one, but by BOTH brothers. One got a car. One got a chocolate.
The obvious thing to do was go and hide behind the recliner.
**I know may of you saintly mothers are saying in your soothing, ever-patient voices, "clearly the kiddo felt left out and unseen. Clearly he was sad. Why did you not give him a candy, or a small toy? Something to show him that he is equally loved and seen?"
You're precious, all of you, but no. NO.**
Now, there are times I have a serious lack of judgement, and today I don't now what I was hoping to prove, but it was about the time we were preparing to leave for the Kindergarten Readiness class at the library and I found Distraught Kiddo hiding that I decided HE was not going to run this roost and that we were going to that class, tears in our eyes and cheeks.
The entire way there were tears.
I could have turned the car around at any moment, but no....
We pulled into the parking lot and Big Kid refused to get out of the car. "Let Mr. George see your terrible manners, let him." I yelled, beyond irritated.
Of course I was hoping that his 5-year-old brain would register the ridiculousness of it all, but my sentiment didn't land. After I pulled him out, he tried running away from me, so I grabbed his wrist and held tight.
After gathering Biggest Kid, and Smaller Kid, we crossed the street and Middle Kid decided to go limp. As a matter of fact, he decided to go limp outside, then again on the stairs going downstairs to the children's area, and once again while we were in the children's area, heading to the classroom. At one point I reminded him, "it would not be hurting like this if you used your feet instead of your knees".
Finally we landed. We made it! We were there!
Naturally, he refused to go into class so I did the best thing I knew: I dragged him in there. As his body was limp, there was a lot of pressure on his wrist, which concerned me, but also further upset me. "If you would just walk, then this won't hurt you so much", I attempted to plead, again.
Mr. George was singing a nice song. ..it sounded fun.
The kids were all dancing in their circle.
All my son had to do was join them.
He could have danced and sang and forgotten all about the tantrum leading up to that moment.
But he didn't.
He dashed out of the room.
I picked him back up and took him back in. "Hello, Demetri", Mr. George said, trying to incorporate him into the play. D, of course, was not having any of it and bed-lined for the door.
At this point I pulled him to the side, telling him, "if you run out of the room again, you would be taken to the bathroom for a spanking".
I took him in and he ran out.
Three spankings are what I gave him, right there in the library bathroom.
In honesty, I felt he deserved many more, as he decided to begin spitting in the car on the way to the library and I told him each spit would equal a spanking. He had spat three times by then and stopped, but he still deserved those three. Plus something for the disobedience.
I stopped at three.
Taking his wrist in mine and dragging him once again, we made it to the entrance of the room when I sat him down and knelt before him. "Once we get home", I told him, "you will be sent straight to your room. I would recommend you go into class. You like this class. It is fun. Going to your room will not be fun. Do you want to go to class, or are you ready to go home?"
"I want to go home", he answered.
I think I embarrassed him. I mean, I am almost certain I did.
It isn't that I wanted to embarrass him, I truly just didn't want him to "get his way", to think he could act like such a bugger and then get to run the show. I had hoped that he would see how foolishly he was behaving, and that he would have fun- some fun designed just for him. HIS special class. His brothers got something that day, and this was his. But we left it. We left the class, the library, the event. We left what was his special treat. It was a self-punishment.
All this time there were eyes watching me. I think that, mostly, everyone is pretty understanding and kind, but that didn't stop the stares.
The stares of seeing a mom loose her cool...
of a kid running...
and a kid crying...
Of a kid being dragged to a bathroom where spankings awaited him.
And a mom, giving in, because she realized that he was not going to stay in that class and she could not make him.
Stares of a mom, defeated. Sweating. Wanting to cry.
A friend of mine was there. "It's okay, Shannon, I've been there, too", she offered. I appreciated hearing it, but I felt too far gone.
We drove home to the tears and moans of a kiddo mourning for his daddy (who was an angel compared to his mommy in that moment).
The thing was, my husband, their daddy, was not home when we had left for the library. He didn't respond to the text messages I had sent him earlier, either, and when he left this morning, it was not before he cursed about the day's events, letting me know that he was annoyed enough not to care about them.
I didn't know if he would be home when we got there or not. Part of me wondered if he even went to work today, or if he was on his way to KY, or IN. At one point, I had convinced myself fairly well that he had returned to NC and was sitting in the kitchen of good friends of ours, mourning his marriage to the husband of this couple we know and love, but cringe for. At the aftermath of years and years of dislike for one another, their marriage is on the edge. They seem to be so hurt by one another that they are barley afloat.
They will have their striving marriages to bemoan together. Compare notes. "Wives are the worst", I imagined them saying.
He is a survivor of P.T.S.D. (post traumatic stress disorder), so I found myself wondering if something worse than complaining about his wife had taken place. I took a mental note of where all our guns were.
I am in this rough spot.
In total transparency, I don't particularly like this stage in big kid (5) and bigger kid (7) lives. They are in a tricky stage. A stage littered with lying and whining and terrible tantrums. A stage of breaking toys -just because- and being so picky. Of "what's in it for me?" and "where is mine?" all the time.
I don't have a favorite son, but I adore the 2-year-old these days. He is still sweet and innocent. He still wants to do nice things, just because, and reminding him that he will get a spanking if he doesn't listen is usually enough to get him back on track.
I am in a rough spot.
Yesterday came to a point when Big Strong Man made a some comments along the lines of "how did we get here", and, "I don't like this". I was outraged, feeling indignant, because I have been asking him the same question and stating the same emotions for years. It was like he woke up yesterday and suddenly we were on the same page, only, instead of this being a good thing, it felt dangerous.
Suddenly we were both looking at a marriage neither of us was proud of.
One neither of us liked.
All of our neglect, all of our hurt, surfaced, and we were forced to look at all our garbage.
And it was garbage.
And it stank.
In writing this, I know I am sharing a lot of personal info. I do this in part to vent and in part as an attempt to heal: both myself and another. Maybe you.
This is an incomplete essay, but I am going to publish it, regardless.
I felt judged today, and I hated it.
I hated it because I know better, because my heart is good, and because it embarrassed me to have an out of control family on display for everyone to see.
Writing is similar, it is scary to be transparent.
Please read this with love. I love my children. I love my husband. And I love our life. But here is clearly a lot of hurt here.
Read this, but don't judge this momma.
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