Monday, August 29, 2011
I feel terrible. I just yelled at Max. He was bugging me for snacks, like usual, so I brought him a nice bowl of water melon (the only fruit he will touch) and because he is being incredibly picky with food he chewed it up and spit it out on the carpet. That was the last straw for me. I slapped his arm (which he barley felt because he had a sweater on) and I grabbed his little checks and gave him the evil mommy dearest stare. The one that comes out when I can feel my blood boiling,
“You don’t spit on my floor!”
The words don’t look mean when written on paper, but I know he felt my anger. It’s the anger I inherited from my father’s blood line. My father had it, his father had it, but with each passing generation, it seems to lesson and I rarely can feel that rage anymore.
Max was sent into time out and instead of screaming (his usual bit) he is pouting and mumbling, “I don’t want to play,” under his breath.
Amazingly, his time out turned into a nap, so I am left alone with my thoughts and feel guilty. Plus the fact that my neighbor just told me her seven year old had a terrible blow up at the library and her punishment was no TV that night, but she still took her to a friend’s house for a play date, right after the temper tantrum. “Sucker!” I say. But she responds, “Well, I can’t take away everything.” I would have. Makes me question, “Am I mean?” “Am I to strict?” But my own mother and father constantly insinuate that I am not strict enough.
“In my day we wouldn’t have that talk” or “You just knew you couldn’t get away with that.” My mother informs me. But I don’t want to be too strict. No. I want to be strict, just not mean and scary…like I just was. But how do I get him to understand that I truly mean business? And why do I think anger will interpret me saying, “stop that!”
I hope he’s not up there right now dreaming about a big scary mommy. I want him to always think of me as beautiful rainbow mommy!” That’s what he calls me. Isn’t it great! He’s been obsessed with the phrase “fart dart”, which he made up himself. He even started calling me and his dad “fart dart.” I said to him one day with a big frown, “I don’t like that name. It hurts my feelings. How about Beautiful Rainbow Mommy?” He likes it too. So now, if I spoil him or are extra sweet to him, he’ll call me that. I should record it because I know that nick name is going to be short-lived. He will have forgotten he ever called me that. I’ll be sure to remind him but he’ll roll his eyes, get all embarrassed and run out the door to play with his friends, drive to school, marry his girlfriend, and raise his own kids. His child hood will pass before my eyes and I just hope he will not remember the days I slapped his arm, squished his cheeks and acted like a “fart dart.”