Ever feel like the worst version of you is winning the battle?
You’re used to the writer rejections.
You’re used to living on four maybe five hours of sleep at night because you swear your eight-month old has insomnia.
You’re used to your three-year old telling you “no I don’t have to go potty” and then he doesn’t quite make it in time to the toilet so you have to change his Lightning McQueen underwear again. He has 18 pair.
You’re now used to the sandpaper rough exterior of your chick hands that used to be soft, but suffered damage from months of cleaning toilets, washing dishes and constant exposure to Clorox Wipes. You should’ve used gloves earlier, but it hadn’t occurred to you, probably because of your lack of sleep.
You call a couple of friends to vent or join you for quick workout so as to relieve the stress of the human pressure cooker, but all you get is voicemail because they’re busy having a great life.
You reach for your Hawaiian Chocolate, but can’t find the box. It’s supposed to be in it’s usual place, but it’s not.
You take deep breaths and count to ten, but nothing works. You’re on the verge.
So what happened? Why did I snap? Why did the worse version of me — the inner bitch — rise from the depths and reach the surface of my sweet golden Coppertone skin?
I lost it.
By eight-thirty, nine o’clock at night I’m done. I’ve got no patience left. I’ve spent 13 hours with two kids under the age of three that require 13 hours of constant attention and play time, well maybe 12.5 hours thanks to thirty minutes of the Go Diego, Go distraction so that I can cook dinner and wash some of the dishes.
By bed time, I’m on a zero-tolerance policy. Patience is gone, and all I need is for them to listen. Just listen. I could use help, but that doesn’t mean I get any. Unwanted and unneeded comments, plenty. But help … not so much. Gray hair emerges. I feel it sprouting from my scalp and twirling down my curls choking out my Guat youth.
All I want is for both kids to fall asleep before Letterman starts. I need to have “me time”. An hour by myself. No washing dishes. No listening to stories. No getting advice. Just an hour to decompress and watch TV. An hour to sit and do nothing before going to sleep.
But that didn’t happen. Battle of the Bedtime sucked and I ended up yelling at my kid to go to sleep or else.
That “or else” didn’t work.
I was literally yelling, you know the type of yelling where the vein pops out and pulsates on the side of your head.
He just wasn’t listening. He was being three. That’s what they do, but today … today I couldn’t handle it.
He kept moving around, jumping around. It’s like someone gave him a box of sugar just before bed. It could’ve happened I was taking a shower and one of the frosted cupcakes we made for Easter was missing. He might have had an extra boost of Betty Crocker and I was in desperate need of “me time”.
So I lost it. I tried counting to ten and taking deep breaths in order to calm down I tried reasoning, loving, cuddling, talking, even singing to him. But nothing worked. It was getting late and I still had a big pile of dishes and baby bottles waiting for me. I was worried that “me time” wouldn’t make it.
The wrath of The Guat was unleashed and I yelled at him like a crazed fan arguing with an umpire. I yelled like a crazy bitch. He got sad and teary eyed. He says …
I still love you mom.
Ohhhhhhhh. Like a knife to my heart. I felt terrible. I felt like I wasn’ t cut out for motherhood.
I gave myself a time-out. No chocolate for you, Guat! None