Somewhere
along the line I’ve realized that I think I’ve lost the right to admit that
sometimes my kids drive me bat (insert expletive if desired) crazy.
Today
a friend and I were discussing how ready we are for school to start. I am so
ready for school to start! My seven year old is off the charts brilliant and
loathes ever ever ever being alone… like ever. So, he gets bored in roughly 37
seconds and follows me around the house saying repeatedly “what are you doing,
Mommy?” or “How long until (insert event here)?” Yesterday we were heading from
my bedroom to the living room. Halfway there it occurred to me that the air-conditioner
had cranked itself up to 85 and I should crank it back down lest we all melt
(the constant thermostat battle is a whole other story for another day). In the
time it took for me to turn around, take three steps back and push a button a
few times Isaiah had realized I was no longer following him, retraced his steps
and was asking “Why did you turn around!?” like I had kicked his puppy. Oi…
In
short the kid is driving me nuts. But at some point somewhere in my head I
decided that I wasn’t allowed to admit that.
I
know. I know how much I would miss absolutely everything about him, even the
things that drive me nuts now. I know.
But
here’s the thing. I’m a mom. I’m human. The death of my amazing, beautiful,
beloved son did not transform me into a perfect human being. If anything it
made me more frail, more prone to slip ups and certainly more emotionally
vulnerable. I’m stressed. I’m sad. I’m
tired. I’m incredibly grateful for my children… and sometimes they make me
crazy. And that is ok.
*I was interrupted three times in the writing of this post by said precious seven year old*
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