They had clearly recovered from last night's debacle of bedtime reading with Mommy.
Truth be told, I haven't recovered. I'm still hurting.
I wish I had their resilience. I suppose I am grateful for at least that. At least they were able to get over it, have good days and still love me. I believed them when they told me that tonight.
I'm not mad at them. Not anymore. Any anger I had was initially released when I threw their books across the room and against the wall by Ella's closet and then stormed out of her room. As I did so, I announced, "no books" and noticed that the back cover of Cal's book had torn away from the spine and pages had spilled out.
I went to my room to breathe. I cried. A few seconds later, I heard a small scream. I had to go back to make sure nothing was wrong, other than my awful reaction to their excessive complaints about my apparently flawed plan to read to them.
Cal had noticed his book, his treasured Star Wars book, had fallen apart and was crying about it. I didn't like that my baby was hurting; but apparently the throwing of their books didn't say enough. I had something important to say. I had their full attention; and without even thinking, I gave them a tearful, verbal beatdown complete with a choice swear word or two. I will never again claim ignorance to where they learned that swear word they'll surely say. The theme was a good one -- it doesn't fucking matter who's book gets read first. My two babies sat next to each other on Ella's bed and watched me the whole time I laid into them. The typically incessant talkers didn't speak one word.
Feeling finished with my message, sad and tired, I picked up Cal's book which was now in shambles and headed downstairs to get some packing tape. I brought it back upstairs to my room and, with my eyes wet and my hands shaky, started to repair the book. I taped the back cover back on the book first. I saw but didn't acknowledge Ella standing in my doorway watching me. I then worked on the spine and last taped some still loose pages to their neighboring pages. My repair job was good but not good enough to not have a regular reminder of tonight's happenings.
I walked toward the door and told Ella to go back to her room, and she did so without complaint. Cal was in his room already, so I went there to drop of his repaired book and tuck him in. I gave him a kiss, apologized for yelling, told him I love him, told him good night and left. He told me he loves me.
I was sad.
I walked to Ella's room and was asked to read her a book. Numb and feeling like I owed her this, I picked up her Snow White book and read it to her with no enthusiasm, inflection or interest. I wondered if she noticed this. I don't think she did. She was content.
Once finished reading, I did the same with Ella that I did for Cal -- kissed her, apologized for yelling, told her I love her, told her good night, turned on her music and headed toward her door. From her door, I turned to her for our routine exchanging of verbal and signed "I love yous" followed by blown kisses. And I turned and left.
I don't feel bad about my reaction. I've learned that I am human. Things like that are going to happen every once in awhile, and I'm okay with that reality. I needed it. Being okay with it doesn't mean that it doesn't hurt, though. Did I have to break Cal's book? Oddly, that's what hurts the most, not so much the breaking of a book but the breaking of the book that he loves and takes good care of himself.
I'm not looking for a positive in all of this or a better approach to being an effective mom. I don't want any criticism but would fully expect it. I am (was?) still hurting about a bad five or ten minutes I had with the Leatherkids last night and wanted to write about it.
I wish I had their resilience. I suppose I am grateful for at least that. At least they were able to get over it, have good days and still love me. I believed them when they told me that tonight.
I'm not mad at them. Not anymore. Any anger I had was initially released when I threw their books across the room and against the wall by Ella's closet and then stormed out of her room. As I did so, I announced, "no books" and noticed that the back cover of Cal's book had torn away from the spine and pages had spilled out.
I went to my room to breathe. I cried. A few seconds later, I heard a small scream. I had to go back to make sure nothing was wrong, other than my awful reaction to their excessive complaints about my apparently flawed plan to read to them.
Cal had noticed his book, his treasured Star Wars book, had fallen apart and was crying about it. I didn't like that my baby was hurting; but apparently the throwing of their books didn't say enough. I had something important to say. I had their full attention; and without even thinking, I gave them a tearful, verbal beatdown complete with a choice swear word or two. I will never again claim ignorance to where they learned that swear word they'll surely say. The theme was a good one -- it doesn't fucking matter who's book gets read first. My two babies sat next to each other on Ella's bed and watched me the whole time I laid into them. The typically incessant talkers didn't speak one word.
Feeling finished with my message, sad and tired, I picked up Cal's book which was now in shambles and headed downstairs to get some packing tape. I brought it back upstairs to my room and, with my eyes wet and my hands shaky, started to repair the book. I taped the back cover back on the book first. I saw but didn't acknowledge Ella standing in my doorway watching me. I then worked on the spine and last taped some still loose pages to their neighboring pages. My repair job was good but not good enough to not have a regular reminder of tonight's happenings.
I walked toward the door and told Ella to go back to her room, and she did so without complaint. Cal was in his room already, so I went there to drop of his repaired book and tuck him in. I gave him a kiss, apologized for yelling, told him I love him, told him good night and left. He told me he loves me.
I was sad.
I walked to Ella's room and was asked to read her a book. Numb and feeling like I owed her this, I picked up her Snow White book and read it to her with no enthusiasm, inflection or interest. I wondered if she noticed this. I don't think she did. She was content.
Once finished reading, I did the same with Ella that I did for Cal -- kissed her, apologized for yelling, told her I love her, told her good night, turned on her music and headed toward her door. From her door, I turned to her for our routine exchanging of verbal and signed "I love yous" followed by blown kisses. And I turned and left.
I don't feel bad about my reaction. I've learned that I am human. Things like that are going to happen every once in awhile, and I'm okay with that reality. I needed it. Being okay with it doesn't mean that it doesn't hurt, though. Did I have to break Cal's book? Oddly, that's what hurts the most, not so much the breaking of a book but the breaking of the book that he loves and takes good care of himself.
I'm not looking for a positive in all of this or a better approach to being an effective mom. I don't want any criticism but would fully expect it. I am (was?) still hurting about a bad five or ten minutes I had with the Leatherkids last night and wanted to write about it.
Tough night! So it goes sometimes, Carla, so it goes. Above all else, you love your kids deeply, with all your heart. In the end, that's all that matters!
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