Broken

Sarah is back, and this time she’s sent in what can only be described as the World’s Worst Moms day from hell. When you read what this woman has had to endure, you’ll laugh, cry, and do that thing where you stare in disbelief at your computer screen with your hand over your mouth. Sarah blogs at Just Outside the Loop.

Yesterday was one of THOSE days. You know, the days where if a miniature person touches you one more time you are going to burst into tears. Gus was clingy, and whiny, and tugging on me, and wanting held, and wanting down, and clumsy then crying every time he fell down.

He’s teething. I get it. He’s miserable. Three canines making their grand entrance in unison. Apparently the show is more impressive in slow motion. This act has been building for weeks and yesterday, the crescendo peaked and broke. Well. . . two of them did anyway.

I went to the garage to get him a Popsicle from the Popsicle shelf (yes we have an entire shelf for Popsicles) of the freezer in the garage. He followed me out there (because there isn’t a way to lock the garage door behind me. My pantry is stashed in numerous places till I get off my exhausted bum and finish the shelving in the laundry room so Gus went through the stash in the garage while I searched for frozen delights. I turned around and saw him pick up a bottle of soy sauce.

“Hand that to me.”
“No!”
“Give it to mommy, now!”
“No!” and he turned and threw it at the garage door. It, of course, shattered on impact.
Popsicle forgotten, I yelled “Don’t move!” I felt myself morph into my father, screaming at the kid not to move. I didn’t understand how he though a teenager was stupid enough to run through broken glass. I get it now Dad. . . instinct.
“No!” Gus runs right into the middle of the mess.

My garage and child smell like Chinese takeout. Gus is screaming while I’m picking shards of glass out of his bare feet. I’m crying, shaking and a little overwhelmed. I give him a bath, stash him in the crib while I clean up the soy sauce (and a melted Popsicle).

Once freed he resumes his drive mommy crazy agenda. Whiny, crying, touching me, touching me, touching me. . . He refuses to eat anything, is pulling everything off the counters and shelves and emptying laundry baskets, holding down the water dispenser on the fridge. His diaper rash is only marginally better and every diaper change involves me pinning him down by a leg across his chest and dangling him from his ankles while he shape shifts into one of the torments of hell. Spinning on his head and everything. . .

He’s been awake for two hours and I’m over it. In the interests of consistent discipline, he has been corrected. . . a lot. . . By eleven a.m. he is in trouble at least every five minutes. I’m furious, shaking in rage, he’s angry, hurting and acting out. We are testing each other’s wills. I get the brilliant idea that we should go for a walk or something, get out the house, change of scenery and all that.

I go upstairs to change my clothes (again) and hear shattering glass. And screaming. . .

I run downstairs and see that he had been banging together little glass ramekins and one had shattered. He has glass in his feet (again) and about twenty pieces embedded in his forearms. We sit in a chair and pick all the glass out of his arms and feet. I strap him into his high chair while I sweep and vacuum. He screams and attempts to shake the booster seat off the dining room chair. In his rage he grabs a bag of potato chips sitting on the kitchen table and pounds it with his fists reducing the contents to crumbs.

I. Have. Had. It.

We do NOT smash potato chips in this house!

I lost my mind. I stood rooted to the spot, clenching the broom. I wanted to chloroform him, put him in a ventilated box and ship him to his dad in Alabama, throw him against a wall, cry. So cry I did. I left him in his chair, sat on the stairs and cried. How did I get here? How could a one year old have enough power that he could completely break me? I was supposed to be a great mom. I have been so patient, kind and firm with discipline up till now. And now? Afraid to touch my kid because I don’t think I can do it in love. Angry with my husband for having the nerve to have a job. Terrified. What if he gets deployed? This is us after one month of Rob being gone, how could I ever think I could do a year?

I called my cousin and told her I was coming over. I needed help. On the hour drive there, I prayed. Gus and I held hands, he sang to me and I prayed for me, for him. I apologized for being angry and losing my temper. I apologized for not being patient and yelling. I explained that his behavior had been bad and that it wasn’t appropriate destroy things when you didn’t feel good. I promised to do better as his mom, not a perfect mom, but a good one.

He just smiled at me, blew me a kiss, patted my hand and made train noises until he fell asleep.

I think I’m forgiven.