This past week has been one of the hardest parenting weeks I’ve ever endured.
Between the stress I’ve been under at work and the emotional weight I felt after leaving Cape Breton on Sunday, both F and I were run ragged. On Tuesday, F had one of the worst meltdowns he’s ever had – and for the first time in my life, I had to handle a temper tantrum of epic proportions in public.
It was not pretty.
As a result of the meltdown – which was sparked by hearing “no” to buying a toy, might I add – F lost his television privileges and had to earn them back. He also needs to earn back the privilege of going to the store, movies and other fun things. But the lack of my TV-as-a-babysitter bandaid has made the evenings tough and I’ve been dubbed Worst Mom Ever about 200,000 times since Tuesday.
Sometimes I feel like I’m doing it all wrong.
F and his dad had a boys’ night out last night, so I worked until 6:30, ran some errands and collapsed onto my couch around 7pm. When J and F came back, F went to his room and J and I had a drink and chatted. I cried. A lot. And then we said goodnight, and I climbed into bed where I laid awake for hours just worrying.
This morning, I stayed in bed late. F played quietly in his room. And then, thinking that I was asleep he sneaked into my room and climbed into bed next to me. I pretended to be asleep, just to see what he’d do.
He put a little arm around me and buried his face into my neck, snuggly as can be. After a few minutes, he kissed my head and whispered, “I love you, Mama,” before crawling out of bed and tiptoeing out of my room.
So, maybe I’m not doing it all wrong.