My four-year-old daughter Mari cried for pretty much all of yesterday. She also cried for the whole day the day before that… and the day before that. She has good reason to be emotional. Since we’ve started school, she’s short on sleep as a result of our earlier waking hour, and she’s having a tough time transitioning from staying home with me all day to going to pre-kindergarten for half the day. For a four-year-old, this level of devastation is completely reasonable. The grownup equivalent of Mari’s present circumstance would be if you plunked a typically-functioning modern western adult into an isolated jungle tribe and mouthed good luck, asshole! to him while giving him a sarcastic thumbs up from your helicopter as it rose towards the sky. It’s a damn lot for a little kid to take in.
On an intellectual level, I understand Mari’s reasons for her precarious emotional constitution. But simply possessing knowledge of her predicament does not automatically turn me into a Zen Earth Mother. When Mari told me last night the food I’d prepared for dinner (nothing out of the ordinary) was “weird” and began to howl inconsolably, I kinda just didn’t know what the fuck to do. Other things that made Mari inconsolable over the previous three days: Her shorts “felt funny,” Lucas touched her shoulder, and I “yelled” at her (asked her to move her cup away from the edge of the table).
And at bedtime last night, the grand climax: she decided that we are a co-sleeping family. The only time we’ve ever co-slept is immediately following birth, when we go to hotels and when we’re in a tent. My husband punches me in the face enough in his sleep; I don’t need my kids attacking me too.
I had been patient and sympathetic with Mari for three days. Even for 90% of yesterday, I continued to maintain a fragile state of quasi-tranquility. I hugged, I soothed, I explained, I distracted, I sang, I snuggled. I did all of that motherly crap you’re supposed to do. I took deep breaths and tried to pass my fucking peace onto her through my goddamn heartbeat.
But last night, at the end of a too-long day of being The Best Mother in the Universe… I checked the fuck out. My four-year-old child was screaming in my face that she would never sleep in her room EVER AGAIN. I tried calm and assertive: “It’s bedtime now.” I tried more empathy: “I understand. It’s been a rough few days. I’ll rub your back for a little while.” I even tried: “Don’t you talk to me that way, young lady.” But finally: “I CAN’T TAKE THIS ANYMORE!!!! I’M LOSING MY FREAKING MIND!!!! I’M DONE! I’M SO DONE! I’M OUT OF HERE!”
My husband stayed with Mari while she screamed, and I went outside and walked circles around the driveway. I had to get where I couldn’t hear her crying anymore. I’d arrived to the point where I was either going to scream so loudly that I would emotionally scar my kids (and possibly also the dog) forever, or I was going to pick up a piece of furniture and hurl it across the room. So I checked out.
There was a brief moment where picking up Mari’s nightstand and throwing it at her dresser seemed like a reasonable thing to do. I imagined the shrill sound the mirrored glass would make as it exploded and hurled shards all over the room. I pictured myself screaming in Mari’s face. My innocent little four-year-old, having a tough transition, and me, a grown-ass woman who done lost her damn mind, screaming in her perfect, stunned face. Not only had I ceased to pity her, but I had ceased to feel guilty for not pitying her. The only thing stopping me from acting out the calamity in my head was that I knew I shouldn’t.
For those who say, “It’s fine, your husband was there, she was supervised,” I gotta tell you: I was leaving that house whether he was there or not. And, assuming one doesn’t have blowtorches and freshly-sharpened sickles lying around the house, I would venture to say this is an okay thing for any parent at their wit’s end to do. Maybe, if my husband hadn’t been there, I would have simply locked my bathroom door and taken a shower. Maybe I would have stood on the back porch and guzzled an entire glass (bottle?) of wine.
I’m not telling this story because I need to moan about how sad it is that I lost it with my kid. We all do that. I’m telling this story because my first instinct was to feel like I’d done something terrible by walking out on my kid. But I’m tired of playing this ridiculous guilt game. I think—no, I know—I did the right thing by walking out on Mari, and I’m giving every other mother out there permission to do the same. If it’s between throwing a piece of furniture and leaving your kid alone for a few minutes? Sometimes you have to walk away, and you shouldn’t have to feel guilty about it.
This is the goddamn trenches of parenting. Sometimes you have no other choice but to check the fuck out.
15 Comments
You are amazing. Always.
you absolutely did the right thing. I have screamed at my kids in ways that I shouldn’t –and written about it because I know others deal with this too–and walking out for a few minutes is a much better solution.
Oh believe me, I’ve screamed too! Never to the extent I was imagining on the night I describe here, but whoa. I’ve definitely screamed. xo
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. A much needed read after being called a horrible parent by someone who doesn’t know me or my children. All I know is I have four sweet, beautiful boys. And that, not a day in my life, would I consider myself a horrible parent.
Oh no! We all get judged at one time or another, I suppose. We need to stop that nonsense! Hugs to you, mama! xo
Kristen Mae, I think I love you. Oh my goodness yes.
Thank you.
You are so very welcome. xo
You’re only human, and yes, walking out to calm down was absolutely the right thing to do. No one told you there would be days like this…
They really didn’t! I thought it would be so much easier… (I READ ALL THE BOOKS!!!) 😉
Thank you. I needed to read this today. I completely agree, but it sure is nice to hear from someone else after be screamed at by my 3 year old while covered in breastmilk and spit up with 2 engorged boobs!
Oh girrrrrrrrrrrl, you are IN the trenches. That’s okay, we’re right here with you. xo
Yep. Understood this all the way to the bank which holds my rapidly emptying account. My 4-yr-old’s been in day care since 3 months, but every time she transitions to a new teacher or new room, it’s like an existential crisis. Her thing now is taking toys (first one, now we’re up to 3) with her that stay in her cubby all day. This is the security solution that seems to be getting her over the hurdle.
I think that’s a great solution! Transitions really aren’t easy for kids … they’re not easy for adults either; I don’t know why we would think kids would handle it any better than we do. 😉
Thank-you, I need to read this today. Picking my 4 year old up from daycare and waiting to be allowed to get into her cubby, she thought it would be a good idea to climb on the table, then jumped up and put my teeth right through my tongue. Blood everywhere and I put her to the wall and a teacher like oh you need help. I want to check out
I have a four year old son that pushes me to my limits on a daily basis. He’s in Kindergarten and got sent to the office where I was called to come and pick him up for the day! I was furious. So after threatening for months to take him where bad boys go we finally ended up at the Police Station.
I had an officer speak to him and he behaved for the remainder of the day (fear worked). He was great until I picked up his sisters from school and all hell broke loose.
I’ve been tempted to do what you’ve done and maybe next time I will!