No one tells you it will be like this.
You are testing my every limit, child. Every single one I have.
The hitting. You smack me with that look on your face. I say don’t hit. Dad says don’t hit. We tell you hitting is not nice, and if you hit we wont play with you. And you look at me… and hit.
The biting. Who taught you to bite? Where did you learn to use your teeth in such a manner? Every hug is suspect, every cuddle is questionable. I never let your face near mine without double checking for the smirk that means you are about to bite me.
The whining. Momma doesn’t whine. Dad doesn’t whine. We never taught you to whine. I’m convinced that it’s genetic, and I’m getting what’s due because of how I was as a child. But it drives me crazy every moment of every day. I tell you, “I don’t understand you when you whine,” and “Tell me what you want without whining,” or even, “Just ask ‘please!'” The whining really makes my nerves grate, brings me to the end of my rope.
The misbehaving. I know that is what you are supposed to do. You misbehave. You are learning limits. You are testing what you can and cannot do. But when you scream because I take the chip bag away, and then I tell you to say please if you want one… and you say please, so I give you a chip… and then you proceed to shatter it into a thousand pieces into the carpet? It makes my brain go to crazy mush.
What happened to my happy, easy going, contented baby? Who is this control freak that flips out every time I urge or encourage him in a direction that he doesn’t want to go?
The ALL OUT screaming fits that happen when I draw the line? They have gotten old so quickly.
Ronan, you make me terrified that you are ‘that kid.’ The one that other people stare at and whisper about. The kid at the baby gym that all the other moms hope stays away from their kids. The one that everyone hopes their kid is never like. That kid in the grocery store, that kid in the mall. The kid I’d hoped you’d never be.
I HATE looking around and wondering if I’m ‘that mom’. The one that can’t keep her kid under control. The one that can’t stop him from throwing a fit. The one that thinks her kid is capable and ready to handle something, and is quite clearly shown that he isn’t. I’m that mom that thinks she’s done a great job raising her sweet, loving, well behaved boy… but I really haven’t.
We don’t leave the house because I can’t handle you in public. We stay home, and feel stuck and isolated, but I’m too afraid to leave. But the longer we stay here, the more you test my limits, my sanity, my ability to cope. Sometimes I’m not sure what else I can do.
And everyone tells me it doesn’t get any easier.