Today was rough. It didn’t start out that way, it was actually a really good day. Then on the way home from the park my 3 yo ran into the street. He *technically* stopped first for like a millisecond and *technically* looked both ways as he was running toward the street and there were THANKFULLY no cars coming, but my heart still skipped a beat.
I grabbed him and sternly told him we STOP before we get to the street, look both ways, and then wait for Mommy to cross (just like we talk about every single fucking time we cross the street).
He started screaming that he wanted to cross the street and wouldn’t look both ways so I put his flailing body in the stroller and fought to strap him in. He bucked and SCREAMED the whole rest of the walk home. Like screamed so loud I would not have been surprised in the least if the police showed up at my house. And I couldn’t even walk fast because my 5 yo was moping because he spilled water on his artwork from school that he insisted on bringing to the park.
Fast forward through the rest of the night to bedtime and he does his seemingly ridiculous little routines that make me want to pull my hair out, but if I rush him through them he completely melts down and bedtime suddenly becomes a living screaming hell.
Then I hold him after we read our story and he clings to me and pats my face as tears stream down my cheeks because I seriously don’t understand how I am the best parent for him. Surely he deserves someone with more patience. Surely he deserves someone who understands him better. Surely he deserves better than me.
But no. For some reason, and in that moment, he’s telling me that I am exactly what he needs.
