I have good intentions. Intentions that are so good, it’s seems foolish to have to state it officially for the record. I love my kids – so much. Jessie, with all her passion and her drama and her sweetness, and Sam with all his strength and intensity and affection. They’re so beautiful and deserve perfect parenting. And instead… they get me. And I’m pretty sure that I’m screwing them up. I think that I’m too hard on Jessie, expecting too much of someone who is, after all, only seven years old. I think I let Sam get away with too much, tolerate bad behavior in him because it’s easier than fighting it all the time.
I’m a yeller. I come from a long line of people who yell and holler, and have absolutely passed the tendency onto them. And we all feed off of each other’s emotions, so Sam starts yelling at Jessie – for no real reason that I can discern, who starts wailing and screaming because she’s mad at Sam, I try to get them to stop but after a half hour or so of constant screaming and fighting, will end up screaming back at them, and then sobbing because I’m obviously terrible at this whole parenting thing, am raising children who can’t communicate without screaming at each other and will grow up with miserable memories of their childhood and a crappy relationship with each other and with me.
Yes, pregnancy hormones are probably playing a factor in this, and yes, lack of sleep because I’m up three or four times a night to pee, and yes, the aches and pains and general misery of being 33 weeks pregnancy is also probably affecting the drama of it all. But clear all that away, and it still leaves the undeniable fact that for about forty five minutes this morning, my seven year old, my three year old and I screamed at each other. And I blame myself entirely for it.
It started out well, I got up bright and early, made coffee, did the dishes, started the laundry, made pancakes for the kids. It all started out so well that I think it made it worse when they just… lost it. Screaming and screaming and stomping and screaming.
And they’re fine now. They’ve decided they love each other once again, are happily playing together. We had a nice little family meeting, and everything is calm and peaceful once again. But I’m still pretty sure I’m a crappy parent. And wish, for their sake, that I knew what the hell I was doing when it came to raising them, because seriously, I really want for them to be calm, content adults who love each other and me. And I’m really afraid that I’m screwing them up royally.