Pouring My Heart Out: Fuckin’ Fours

Every day is a struggle.

Every. Single. Day. I have to struggle with the concept of who I am and what I’m doing.

It’s a fucking mid-life crisis, except I’m 27 and pretty sure it’s never going to end.

And then, there’s him. That beautiful little boy that I made and that I love so much.

Except Monday he made me cry the “ugly” cry for the twenty minute drive home from the grocery store.

He’s not just “testing limits” or “pushing buttons.” He’s at full-on war with me.

Most days I would swear he hates me. Hates. Me.

He just whines and whines and cries and cries and then suddenly he kicks me in the grocery store. I grab his leg and he hits me. I grab his wrist and he FUCKING SLAPS ME ACROSS THE FACE CAUSING MY GLASSES TO FLY OFF.

I mean, What The Fuck?

Who is this little hellion and what has he done with my wonderful little superhero?

And I know you’re wondering what I did after he slapped me.

Because I’m pretty sure I didn’t do the “right” thing.

Probably because I have no idea what the “right” thing is.

I smacked him upside the head, told him to NEVER HIT ME AGAIN and then proceeded to continue my shopping while he cried from the cart.

First because I “don’t love him.”

Then because he “wanted out of the cart.”

Then he wanted to “help pick the groceries.”

Then his “finger hurt.”

On any other shopping trip, I totally would have left. But fuck that shit. I have no groceries at home. These fuckers can listen to my child cry so we at least have some food in the damn house.

Plus, I am no longer shopping at Walmart, which is 5 minutes from my house, so grocery shopping requires a 20 minute drive. Each way.

So fuck you very much.

Especially you, woman staring at my crying child and my tear-streaked anger face. Just. Fucking. Stop. My day has been bad enough, I don’t need to feel your judgment.

Trust me, I already know it’s there.

While we are checking out (T is crying about his finger by now), the cashier tries to be all “oh, one of those days, huh?” but I am very much “just check my shit out, let me pay and get me the fuck out of here.” I know she was trying to be all sympathizing and such, but it was seriously just making me feel worse.

In the car? T falls asleep pretty much as soon as I pull out of the parking space.

So, while he sleeps and I drive home, I cried. I suppose an “ugly” cry is probably louder than what I was doing, but I couldn’t risk waking him up so I kept it the volume of the radio while Katy Perry is singing about Friday night and Lady Gaga won’t pick up the phone. I am just crying and crying and I get home with a bright red face still tears are falling and I make myself stop while I unload the groceries into the house so T sleeps longer in the car. Then I bring him in and lie him down on the couch where he is still sleeping as I write this.

And as I write this, I continue to cry.

I have failed.

Over and over again.

I never have the “right” response.

Even if I did, I do not believe it would change who T and I have become.

Yes. Both of us.

This is not just him becoming a cretin. It’s not just me and my terrible parenting skills and zero patience.

This is us.

We have both become people our former selves would never recognize.

It’s probably a phase for him. He bypassed the Terrible Twos for the Fuckin’ Fours. Maybe Five will be better.

But it’s not a phase for me. This is who I have been slowly becoming, ever since that day I turned to J and said, “I think two lines means it’s positive.”

I was inexplicably angry while I was pregnant.

I was depressed after he was born.

And I have teetered precariously between these two extreme emotions for the last four-almost-five years.

Monday night was a breaking point. I guess I’ll just have to see what happens next.

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For some unknown reason I am linking this up with Shell‘s Pour Your Heart Out. It was written by hand on Monday night, immediately after the events. Part of me wants to close comments, but then there is the part of me that has actually found some comfort in your comments. So. That.

I’m not marketing this through Twitter either. I’m hoping to post a new update so the first thing people see when they visit my blog is not something so utterly depressing and tear-filled.

I really hope that if T reads my words one day, it will be in a safe environment where we will both be able to discuss whatever feelings and emotions we struggle through. Because, above all else, I love him. I do not regret having him in my life. I only regret that I have not become the mother that he deserves.

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