Last Thursday began with a full-blown temper tantrum that included screaming, crying, and even the throwing of an object. Yes, someone was not happy that she did not get her way. And no, it wasn’t the feisty toddler or even the often pouty 7-year-old. It was their mother. That’s right, Mama wasn’t happy, and she let everybody know it.
Everything seemed to be going fine until Omelette announced at breakfast that her tummy hurt. I have learned to take her seriously when she makes such a declaration. (For more on that, see this post.) However, when I asked her if she felt like she was going to throw up, she said no. When asked if she felt like she could go to school, she said yes. So, we loaded up in the car and headed on our way. Then, I went home to finish getting myself and Early Bird ready for my Thursday morning moms’ group.
A phone call put a stop to that.
It was Omelette’s father saying that the school office had called him. She was in the office complaining again of a stomach ache. He asked me if I was going to be home, and I reluctantly told him that I had other plans that morning but that I could stay home if I needed to. So it was decided that he would drop her off at my house on the way to work.
This wasn’t fair! It was supposed to be my easy day. I had no work to do, and I would be spending the morning eating muffins with the moms while Early Bird played with the other kids in her class. Now, there would be no muffins, and I would have to play mom to both kids all day. Why did she have to get sick on my one day to myself?
Upon hearing the phone hit the wall, Roostler came in to see what was going on. He quickly saw what I had done and began yelling at me about how we couldn’t afford to replace my phone. Still in the pouty stage of my fit, I got up and shut the door in order to escape the brunt of his yelling.
From behind the closed door, I heard something about not being childish. That’s when the tears came. Yes, I knew there was an actual child who needed my attention, but that did nothing to keep me from feeling like the little girl who had just watched her ice cream fall from the cone onto the pavement. And there was no one to chase the ice cream truck down to buy a replacement. It was just me and the man on the other side of the door yelling at me to grow up.
The problem is I didn’t want to.
I got up from my chair and moved into the bedroom where my crying fit continued. I wailed about how I didn’t want to be mom today. I was supposed to be taking the morning off. Having a moment to myself. (I suppose by throwing a fit I was having a moment to myself. Just not in the way I had expected.)
Roostler awkwardly tried to convince me that I needed to calm down so that I could be the mom I needed to be. He pointed out that Early Bird was very concerned about my crying. “Why ky-ing?” she kept asking.
Again, Roostler urged me to grow up. He told me to stop acting like a baby. I yelled back at him, “I’m not being a baby! I’m having one!”
Yes, the pregnancy hormones are partly to blame, but most of the blame belongs to me alone. I didn’t get my way, so I threw a fit. If one of my children had done the same, I would have been the one telling her to stop it and get on with what needed to be done.
By the time the doorbell rang, I had stopped crying. Omelette came in and immediately lay down on the couch. Though still upset about not getting what I wanted, the mom in me knew that her needs were more important. So I asked her if I could get her anything.
“Just some crackers and Sprite. And could we watch a movie?”
“Sure, honey. What do you want to watch?”
“I think I can handle that.”
It wasn’t the morning I had planned, but with the three of us settled in for some Muggles and magic, I knew the muffins could wait for another day.