I can't even write today. I feel sick to my stomach.
Because I'm a fraud.
I try so hard to write positive messages about love, security, parenting and God, and I really do try to follow my own advice, but then today happened.
Today wasn't pretty. It was ugly.
I was ugly.
The older my kids get, the more they fight. They fight about the stupidest, most meaningless stuff. Like popcorn and and I don't know what else.
My son was on the steps when he screamed--not an "I'm angry" scream but an "I'm hurt" scream, and I raced to find him crouched down, holding his foot. "What happened? What happened??" I asked, cradling him and making sure all parts were in tact.
"SHE pushed me."
And then it happened.
I yelled. Not only did I yell, I screamed. At the absolute top of my voice. "GET DOWN HERE RIGHT NOW," and it was a tone that she knew meant business. And then before she could even open the door to that room, I went up and yanked her by her arm out of the room and sat her down on the steps.
He pushed her, she pushed him, she took his glasses (she doesn't know why)...and I yelled. "I'm about to lose it! I'm sick of it. GO TO YOUR ROOM."
She has attitude, but I could tell she was upset by my over-reaction. I mean, your mother is supposed to stay in control, calmly handle infractions and know what to do.
I don't know what to do.
So. I lost it.
They're in their rooms showering now, just like I asked them to do (20 minutes ago, which only leads to frustration). But now there's an elephant in the room called "My Mom Screamed At Me and Lost Her Cool".
Hence the waves of nausea coming on.
Why? Because it's how my own mother would have reacted. She would blow. Scream and yell and throw things and just loose it. I promised myself I would never do that to my kids.
I broke my own promise.
Will they forgive me? Will we have a good night? Will they even speak to me? Do they hate me? Will she tell all her friends what a mean ogre/witch I am?
Can I even face them after the spectacle on the stairs?
The tears flow, but now they don't belong to my children. They belong to me.
I am not what I make myself out to be.
I don't have it all under control. I am not calm or even-tempered or secure or faithful to my God.
I am a mess.
It's hard to think that He might love this mess. This yelling, ill-tempered, emotional, stubborn, judgemental, envious, sometimes downright hateful woman who doesn't have any idea what to do from one minute to the next.
But He does. Through His infinite mercy and grace, He does.
The showers have stopped. The upstairs is quiet. I pray He gives my children mercy and grace.
I have to go talk to them.
***Update: Apparently, my kids were not as traumatized by my reaction as I was, and they both looked at me like I had three heads when I asked, with tears in my eyes, if they were okay. They forgave without a moments hestitation, and peace has been restored in the R household.