Remember my recent post, when I said that even on the bad days, being a parent is still good? Yeah, well, I take it back.
I’m kidding. Mostly. I think. But the other day, when I was in the thick of some pretty awful threenager behavior, I was totally and completely serious. There was nothing figurative about the fact that I wanted to crawl under the covers and hide from my usually sweet baby—I literally wanted to hide from him.
Now, I’m usually the queen of perspective, so maybe that’s why it was hitting me so hard—any perspective I had was out the window, running down the block and hopping a ferry to New Jersey. I mean, I recognized what was going on. He’d had a big day. It was hot outside, and he wasn’t used to the sudden summer heat. He was overtired. He’d recently given up his paci and was much harder to soothe. He’s three.
I’m also pregnant and well into my third trimester, so my hormones are admittedly a little all over the place.
So what set me off?
“You’re a jerk.”
Yes, three little words that are very different than the three little words I’d much rather hear. After I got over my initial shock, I calmly yet firmly told him that wasn’t a word that we use.
But of course, I had used it. I had said it a few times in the car when navigating my way through the, well, jerks of New York City. The drivers who don’t use directionals and almost sideswipe you. The pedestrians who are too busy looking at their iPhones to pay attention when crossing the street and then curse at you when you honk at them. I could go on, but my blood is starting to boil just thinking of a few recent incidents. Those people are way more than jerks, but I was proud that I’d restrained myself from saying the really bad words I’d wanted to call them.
I hadn’t even come right out and called them jerks. I usually let out a frustrated grunt or honked my horn, and my son asked me what was wrong. Well, my boy, that person was acting like a…jerk, which I then explained was “a person who wasn’t acting nicely.”
And here he was, using the damn word properly and calling me out on what he thought was jerky behavior. Mind you, it was not letting him have a cookie before dinner. Yep, Mom’s a real jerk.
“You’re a jerk. You’re a jerk. You’re a jerk,” in a singsongy little voice. With a smile on his face. A smile! He was actually taunting me.
I felt like the bullied kid at school. I felt like a failure as a mom. And mostly, I just felt really, really sad.
I told him to stop. I told him that he wasn’t allowed to use that word. I told him that he needed to go in his room and calm his body down. I told him that he wasn’t being a nice boy. I told him…honestly, after a certain point, I just told him to go away. I had had enough.
Tears were starting to well up in my eyes. Actual tears!
I felt like the bullied kid at school. I felt like a failure as a mom. And mostly, I just felt really, really sad.
When my husband walked through the door, I said, “I’m done. He’s all yours for the rest of the night.”
My husband looked baffled by the whole thing and had a talk with the kiddo during bath time. Afterward, my son, all fresh and clean and combed, walked over to me and sweetly apologized. And I didn’t care! I couldn’t be all Zen and Elsa and let it go for the first time ever. I said OK and sent him back to his dad.
The tears started again. What was wrong with me? I loved this child unconditionally, and he was just acting like a child. Why was it bothering me so much? I guess it was because his behavior was the antithesis of everything I had been trying to teach him over the last three and a half years, and yet here it was anyway. Plus, he had really and truly hurt my feelings.
The next morning, I did my mom duties and packed him off to camp. I was still feeling a little deflated, to be honest. But at the end of the camp day, when I went to pick him up, he saw me, his face lit up and he ran into my arms with a running jump. “Mommy!!!”
He was happy to see me. He loved me. He didn’t think I was the worst mother ever. And I wasn’t. I loved this boy to his very core, and I would keep doing my best for him. That’s all I could do—well, that and keeping my PG-rated potty mouth in check.
Suddenly, all was right with the world again. For both of us.
Tell Us: What kiddie behavior has upset you? And how did you deal with it?
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