I’m not a crier.
If I bang my hip into a table, or stub my pinky toe so hard it bends backwards and I swear ripped right the hell off, or I see a really, really sad TV show- I might shed a few tears (along with a few choice expletives), but I’ve been lucky. Life, in general, hasn’t given me too much to cry about over the past few years.
I can’t say the same about the past few days. It’s been a rollercoaster of emotions for me–ones I have had trouble controlling, or hiding, even from my children. It’s not that I try to be perfect in front of them. I want them to really know me–flaws and all– but you never want your kids to see you fall apart.
As hard as I tried, I got to a point where I couldn’t keep it together anymore. I felt lost. I tried eating a banana, even though I felt sick, but it just made me hate bananas (I believe the words ‘long yellow bastards” came out of my mouth). I tried working out–maybe punching the air would help. It didn’t. I picked the kids up late because I just didn’t want to deal with anyone, or make small talk, or be asked why I wasn’t smiling.
Once we were home, a glorious idea came to me: Nachos. No one can be sad when they have a plate of nachos in front of them. I grabbed the cheese, and grated it over a plate of chips and after melting it, topped it with all the glorious nacho-like things. And then I stuffed my face.
Mid cramming nachos down my throat, Parker walked in the room.
“What are you doing?”
(with my mouth completely full) “…..Nfng…”
The reality of the situation hits him, and in his most exasperated voice, he asks “Why do YOU get nachos?”
I gulped. Nachos aren’t exactly normal snack-fodder in this “be healthy” household, so how do I even justify the fact that I’m indulging without even offering to share? With the truth.
“Because I cried all day.”
The look of offense wiped from his face. He knew why I was upset. He knew what was going on. He’d seen me. He’d watched my behavior.
“Oh.” he says, his voice much softer than before. “Okay.”
He left the room without another word. This is one of the times he really got the adult situation going on around him. He understood. He felt for me, because he knew my feelings were very real. And he knew not to push me. But these situations aren’t exactly common. He’s 7. He doesn’t understand everything we go through, and many times, I’ve realized too late that I’ve said something around him that he has later repeated without understanding what he’s saying, what it means, what kind of impact those words could have.
It doesn’t matter if what we say is said in a moment of weakness, out of anger, or is completely justified. Our kids are watching. Listening. Learning. Repeating.
They see us. They hear us. They’re waiting for us to guide them, even when we don’t know they are.
They HEAR us. The question is- what are they hearing?
@Julieannefiu I still sing WRAPPED UP LIKE A DOUCHE. I think they're lying about the "real" lyrics
I sang SO many embarrassingly wrong song lyrics with such confidence. pic.twitter.com/Ww5TaAxY3r
@AndreaPerez0217 Not that I'm biased, but I highly recommend ;) Hope you enjoy!
Parenthood: you think it's gonna be all hugs & booboo kisses, but it's really cooking food everyone hates & scraping boogers off of walls.
School system: Here! Have a half day on Friday the 13th! Me: pic.twitter.com/Dy18C8R3dD
Spooking the Kids Without Scarring them for LIFE With Netflix! (and a giveaway!) goo.gl/fb/tkeWgB