The Ice Sculpture

When I saw Will's latest art project, I knew it would be trouble.  As I arrived to pick him up for school, it was sitting in his cubby.  Broken pieces of styrofoam held together by toothpicks-- they were calling it an 'ice sculpture'.  One of my arms was struggling with the 25-pound baby carrier and the other was juggling Will's lunch box, my purse and the book he wanted to borrow from the school library.  Add one ice sculpture to the list as we struggled up the stairs and out into the 18 degree weather.

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After school we were headed to a local pro shop to get Will some hockey equipment.  Will got his first pair of skates and gloves.  (Helmets were out of stock-- just one more thing to add to the weekend to-do list.  Awesome.)

We finally arrived home and I couldn't wait to get inside.  I assessed the situation and made a plan.  I left the car running while I brought in the garbage cans, checked the mail, unlocked the door and carried in the hockey purchases.  I went back outside, opened Will's door, undid the straps of his carseat and instructed him to go inside. 

"Carrrry meeee....", he whined.

I explained that I could not carry him and told him again to go inside.

"Carrrry meeeeee....", he whined again with a greater sense of urgency.  He was slumped against the dirty, salt-covered mini-van with a runny nose and tired eyes-- definitely in need of a nap.

I was tired too-- too tired to repeat myself.  I went around to the other side of the van to unload Liam and the diaper bag, lunch box, purse, book and... ice sculpture.

Will was now crying.

I came around the van and was headed towards the door-- the carrier in my left arm and everything else piled in my right.  Then came a gust of freezing wind, which sent the ice sculpture rolling down the driveway.  So I put everything down, chased down several pieces of styrofoam, then picked everything up and headed towards the door.  It was quiet.  

Had Will stopped crying?

No.

Was he outside?

No.

Why is the door shut?

He didn't.

Why is the door locked?

He did!

It was so fricking cold.  The keys were stuffed inside the diaper bag and my hands were full.  I was trying to knock with my elbows... trying to stay calm... trying to see the humor in this... thinking, "oh, in a few hours you'll be laughing at this".  About twenty seconds went by.  Then I was kicking the door, biting my tongue and trying to stay calm.  About twenty more seconds went by.  No sign of Will.  I put Liam down and dropped everything else.  I was seething.  I jammed my hand into the diaper bag, fished out the keys, and unlocked the door.  Will was inside, safe and warm, sitting at his train table in his coat and hat-- grinning at me from ear to ear.  While outside, a small part of me thought that this might be a mistake on his part, that he locked the door by accident-- but that look of self-satisfaction on his face sent that 'small part' of me packing.

Needless to say he was undressed and in bed for nap in record time.

And then I went back outside for the ice sculpture.

Good Days, Bad Days & Mommy Meltdowns

Thursday was not a good day for Mommy and Will.

Will woke up in an unusually cranky and disagreeable mood.

It seemed like he was intentionally breaking every rule in the book.

Mommy, due to her idiotic preference for reading blogs and wandering Facebook, had gone to bed very late the previous evening.  She was exhausted and short-tempered. Her misbehaving toddler wasn't just getting on her nerves, he was trampling all over them.

After multiple warnings and countless "timeouts", after a myriad of bribes and incentives, after many failed attempts at applying a limited knowledge of child psychology, something snapped.  Logic, reasoning and restraint went out the window, temporarily replaced by what I can only describe as madness.  

Will yelled at mommy.  Mommy yelled back.

Will hit mommy.  Mommy hit back.

Who was the parent?  Who was the mature, rational and sensible adult?  For sure, it wasn't me.

I know that I am a good parent.  I give my kids plenty of love and affection.  I spend time with them, teach them, support them and encourage them.  I am normally patient and understanding.  I try to be a role model, demonstrating the characteristics that I want them to possess.

But admittedly, there are times when frustration and impatience get the better of me.  Times when that red-faced, crazy mom rears her ugly head.  And trust me, it's ugly.  And afterwards, the guilt is overwhelming.

On this particular day, Will took a 2-hour nap.  He woke up and called for me.  (We still use a baby gate at his door.)  I went upstairs and scooped him up in my arms, giving him big hugs and kisses.  Whenever we have a bad day, I always try to discuss it later, when we're both more calm and rational.

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"I'm sorry I yelled at you, Will."

"I'm sorry I yelled at you, Mommy."

"I'm sorry I spanked you, Will."

"I'm sorry that I hit."

"Let's try to never do that again, okay?"

"Mommy?"

"Yes, Will..."

"I'm sorry I called you a 'bad mom'."  (Oh yes he did.)

"That's okay."

".... and I'm sorry that I said that I not love you."  (Ouch.)

"That's okay, I know you love me and I love you."

"Mommy?"

"Yes, Will..."

"I love you."

"I love you too."

Being a mom is definitely the most challenging thing I have ever done. The good days are wonderful and the bad days?  Boy do they suck.  I think the trick is turning bad into good, before chaos ensues.  We're working on that.  

Waaaaaahhh...

This is what happens when you beat your 3-year-old at "Hide & Seek".