It was another attack of being 3. A fight to get her dressed and get out of the house – something she often refuses to do these days. It was no worse than many tantrums she’s had before. It was not the first time I decided to take control and not back down.
I fought her into her clothes, I rocked her and reminded her that I love her. I told her that we made an agreement to get out of the house at least once every day. Grandma and I calmed her down, talked about which toy she could take with her in the car and which shoes she would wear.
We got her out the door and into the car. There were more tears. I said goodbye as they went off on their errands and I shut the front door.
It had been a hard night. I had a lot of trouble falling asleep and not long after I finally managed she woke up crying. I woke up tired and frustrated. She woke up at 6 am. She wanted to eat and to play and this and that.
I should have been fine. I had plenty of rest this weekend, with Daddy home for three straight days. I was happy with how I had handled the tantrum. We have agreed that she just can’t get her way. She’s been acting like a brat more than we’re comfortable with and though everything points to normal, it’s hard to deal with.
I don’t know why this morning felt so hard. I don’t know why I shut that front door and walked upstairs and sat down in bed to cry and thought, for the first time in the three years since she was born: I wish I wasn’t a mother.
I’ve had the thought before that she would be better off without me. That one comes and goes. I have never thought that I would be better off without her because, honestly, she makes the world a better place.
It’s hard though, not to be reminded of how easy things were before we were parents. Our schedules were our own, weekends were for sleeping in.
No one made me question myself on a daily basis.