I can’t remember the last time my kids made me cry, but tonight was a rarity. My son was being too wild and banged his head into my lip and the shock brought tears to my eyes, as the blood trickled from my mouth. I was distressed and went to the bathroom, locking the door behind me, and as I dabbed at my lips, I just let it all out.
The thing is, the physical pain didn’t really bother me. I can handle injections or small surgical procedures (okay, not throat cultures), and certainly having been a former habitual lip-picker (who has been in remission for around 5 years), a little lip blood is not jarring to me. But the root of my emotional display was that I needed some space. It was an afternoon where I had one child at home with a flu/hives thing, and she needed lots of attention and wanted to be carried around. And my 3-year-old in general wants to be carried around or held by me, as if he were still an infant. I try my hardest to give him the physical affection he craves, but I just can’t cook dinner with a too-large baby on my hip plus a whining sick child. I required a few feet of distance, or some Zenful silence.
It makes me feel guilty that I long for quiet, sometimes. That I don’t want to be smothered by the kids, or that I feel if they scream “MOMMY” one more time, my brain will crumble. And especially on days when they are home sick and need more attention from me, and therefore I have less “me” time, I tend to feel drained. My fuse was already short, and because my 3-year-old was climbing all over my lap and jumping around on me when I needed to be helping my other kids with homework, the blow to the lip was the last straw. He sensed my disappointment as he saw the look of shock in my eyes and noticed the subtle change in my voice as I slipped away, disentangling myself from his small body, which was doing gymnastics on my lap, to grab some tissues.
Once I was free of his suffocating ways, I locked myself in the bathroom, and there, I sunk to a low step-stool, probably splattered with drops of questionable liquids, and silently cried. I also took a selfie of that moment to send to my husband so he could make sure to see how taxing my day as a mom was, to validate my overwhelming emotions. What good is it to get beaten up by your kids to the point of tears if you don’t have someone to pity you?
When I was finished (and not necessarily because I was ready to come out, but more likely that somebody was banging on the door, anxious to use the bathroom, even though we have more than one), I herded the remainder of my children from the corners of the house and guided them up the stairs to take showers for bedtime. Knowing that in a few short minutes, they’d be tucked away for the night gave me the boost of energy I needed to recoup my feelings and pretend it had never happened.
My son looked angelic in the bath, trying his hardest to tiptoe around the fragility he sensed. “How is your boo-boo feeling?” he asked, while rubbing shampoo onto his steamroller truck. There were bubbles everywhere and the shampoo was practically empty. His trucks are neurotically clean. “I’m so sorry, Mommy. I love you. Now we can be best friends,” he said, and reached over the ledge of the tub to give me a wet hug that was harder and longer than any other hug I have ever had. My eyes burned, and I blinked hard to avoid crying in front of him, again. But this time, it was because I saw the root of his clinginess, its positive side, how it is drenched in genuine love.
He told me he loves me 20 more times in the short remainder of the evening, each time his eyes widening a little more, as if each repetition would somehow increase my love for him a notch, making sure we still had what we had had the hour before he demanded too much of me, and his head split my lip. He sensed my dismay, my disapproval, even though I didn’t yell or cry in front of him, but he read it in my face, and it pained him, and he was working hard to repair what he had accidentally damaged.
My very kind husband offered to take me out to drinks or dinner to help ease my stress (See? The selfie worked!), but I don’t really care where I am or where I go. I just need to be alone or with other adults. For a little. So that I can be in the right frame of mind to face my best friends again in the morning, to be loved, hugged, and to carry them around.
By Sarah Abenaim
Sarah Abenaim is a freelance writer. She can be reached at [email protected].
