Welcome Home!

It turns out when you have a toddler and you leave for 4 days, he really really wants to test limits and push boundaries with you when you get back.  It has been a rough couple of days for the beast and me.

Everything I ask him to do is met with "I can't."  Every time I ask if he wants something, "No."  The amount of attitude attached to every freaking thing that kid has said to me in the past three days is nothing short of hair pullingly impressive.  I cannot even come close to counting how many I have made that child look me in the eye so I could once again tell him he is not allowed to talk to me like that.

Last night this little song and dance he and I have been rehearsing ended with me loudly closing his door while he laid in his crib, kicking his legs like a manic kangaroo stuck on its back, with a juuuust barely put on diaper.  I just couldn't deal.  My patience tank had reach its limit of smart ass kid for the day, and I had to walk away.  And shutting the door loudly...well, I was mad at myself the moment I did it, but I just couldn't help it.  So I left him in there for a couple minutes, kicking and screaming.  And once I had regained my composure, I went back to find him sitting in his crib, crying, with his blanket around his head like a nun's habit.  We sat together and had a talk about him being sassy and that it makes me sad.  And that it makes people sad when you are not nice to them.  I'm gonna let myself believe some of that sank in, but only time will tell.

And this morning.  For the most part things were going great.  Until he got mad at me for handing him the remote to put away instead of letting him pick it up himself.  "You don't hand it to me, Mama!" was a phrase that solicited another, "You are not allowed to talk to me like that" statement.  He bounced right back and I thought we were fine.  But then he wanted nothing to do with me holding his hand going down the back steps.  There is a railing and he is capable, so I figured I would let him do it.  But then he just stood there.  So, I told him I was leaving and went to the garage.  As I was putting my stuff in the car, I could hear him crying.  I was positive he was standing at the top of the steps being stubborn.  So I responded, mostly to myself,but loud enough that he might hear, "This is gettin' old buddy.  Really really old."

When do you suppose I am going to learn that every stinkin' time I assume he is just being an ass I am going to be proven wrong?  So I come out of the garage and see my little boy laying on the sidewalk at the bottom of the steps crying.  Laying on the CONCRETE, crying for me.  While I was in the garage telling him I am sick of his shit.  Stellar.

He was fine and had only tripped on the last step.  He didn't even have a scuff on his hand.  Think that mattered in the great game of feeling like a shitty mom?  Nope.

Now I just have to work on getting the picture of him laying there out of mind so I can maintain the ability to walk away when he is being unreasonable.  And, you know, I don't obsess about things ever so I'm sure this is gonna be just fine.