Yesterday I mentioned that sometimes I have endless patience as a parent in situations that should by all rights leave me tearing my hair out.
Today was not one of those times.
Neither is my writing cooperating with me today, with my half-written post intended for today not coming together the way I want it to. It’s almost midnight, and I am bone weary from a hard swim, which I needed to clear my head after a day of frustration.
A friend from high school said on Facebook recently that she feels “strongly about telling people that [I I really hated being a mother of very young kids], because I think a lot of moms feel guilty when they’re not enjoying it. It doesn’t make us bad parents; some of just hate babies and toddlers!”
I would not say I that I am firmly at the “hate” end of baby/toddler parenting , but I am definitely dangling somewhere closer to that spectrum. Perhaps hate is not the word for me, but I would definitely take “surviving” over “enjoying” as being more accurate, and like my friend, I prefer to be honest about it. I love my son. And I love his adorable moments. But some days they are not sufficient to soothe away the difficult parts.
So I swam until I couldn’t breathe, and now I am going to bed. Tomorrow is a new week.
The Feathered Rose 