As usual, I’m not sure how relevant or healthy it is to blog about my personal experiences, but the writer and self deprecator in me just can’t help it. So here I go. Let me preface what I’m about to say with the fact that I’m a yeller. I come from a house of debating yellers and although my stoic, mid-western husband has taken me down a few decibels over the past decade, I still yell. Wait. Let me try this another way… after having children, the yelling has come back. Ah. There we go.

My stepmother recently commented on how “together” I am as a woman, which was followed by my typical sarcasm. I said, “I don’t know how ‘together’ I am––I mean, my daughter locked me out of the house for 2o minutes today, and my neighbors heard me screaming at her to open the door and they came to my aid.” Yes, my lovely three year old watched as I marched a poop filled diaper to the trash and pounced on the opportunity to test her mother. And she did. I pounded so hard on the door that I eventually bruised my hand. All I could think about was my 20 week old baby who was still lying on the floor in my room. I don’t think he would’ve gone anywhere, but I was still freaking out over it. Hence the yelling and pounding at the door. Anyhow, these super nice neighbors came over to tell me that I could easily jimmy the locks by using a credit card, a trick I have put to good use since that day. And while we were attempting to pop the lock, I heard a faint “click”. The woman turned to me, stunned. “Do you think?” she asked.

“Yes, I think…” I responded. “Thank you for your help. Now if you would excuse me.” I quickly opened the door to my toddler who initially thought she was in the clear until she recognized the angry mommy face and swiftly ran like the wind to her time-out spot. “Don’t spank me!” she pleaded. And honestly? All I could see was RED. We were late for school, Gunnar had a doctor’s appointment and I was completely angry. And yes, I spanked her. First of all, this is a touchy area, right? To spank or not to spank? Personally, I know it doesn’t work. My daughter could care less. Sometimes, she’ll even egg me on. “Go ahead mom!” Ugh. The humiliation of it all.

So I made a promise. I promised to myself, and to God (who I really don’t talk to all that often) that I wouldn’t spank my daughter. The pain I’m inflicting on her (in her case, with all the damn laughter, there is none at all apparently) is only quelling my anger. This pact, this late at night deep pact that I made between myself and my Maker––lasted all of 24 hours. Yes, after a trip the grocery store turned ugly, I became… wait for it… that crazy bitch mother who was yelling and whooping (albeit sort of discreetly?) her child in the parking lot. My husband looked at me like I was a complete psycho and later said as much. And it’s just humiliating. Please, please, please tell me that I’m not the only psycho parent out there. I am trying each and every day to abandon my anger and opt only for the “go to your room” technique, but I am weak. People, I’m weak.

Maybe it’s time for the Super damn Nanny. Sigh.

In the wee hours of of the morning, I walked like a zombie from son’s room where I’d fed him, down the long flight of stairs to my bedroom, to collapse upon my pillow.  Two hours later I would hear my daughter’s voice echoing down the hallway.  ”Mommy.  Mommy.  I need you.”  I pretended not to hear her when my husband jumped out of bed as quickly as possible to get to her.  I could hear their strained, one sided conversation.  ”I want milk.  No.  Not you get it… only mommy get it.” Without ever opening them, I rolled my eyes.  Her voice grew louder as her father’s tone became more stern.  I didn’t want the baby to wake up, so in my zombie trance, I walked back up the stairs to take care of the princess’s request.  My husband and I passed one another in the hallway like two parental pros… commencing handoff.

“I love you mom,” she said to me in her sweetest voice.

“I love you too baby,” I said as I crawled into bed with her.  She wrapped her tiny arms around my forearm and gave it a squeeze before kissing it.

“I want to be a scawy witch fo Halloween.”

“Ok.”

“What ah you goin’ to be?”

“A zombie,” I said half awake.  I knew my sarcasm would be lost on her, but it was all I could muster.

“I don’t know what that is.”

“I know.  Let’s talk about it tomorrow.”

I fell asleep listening to her and those adorable missing r’s, and I completely forgot where I was.  After realizing I had been there for hours, I made my way to my room again, only to be awoken by the alarm clock again and again.  My God, I was tired.  But I managed to get up, get Elsa dressed, her teeth brushed, the baby fed, and finally out the door to school.  But where am I going with this? Right.  The point.  I’m about to get to that.  The night I just described has been going on for what seems to be an eternity.  I can’t even remember the last time I had a full night’s sleep. It was before I was pregnant I’m sure, but who’s counting? Not even me at this point.  But I digress.

Tonight, after baths were given, meals were consumed and kids were tired, my daughter, son and I sat on the couch and listened to music.  He lay in my lap with his arms stretched overhead… in complete sleeping bliss.  Elsa sat next to me playing with her blanket’s silky corners and I combed through her honey blonde tresses with my fingers while we waited for Craig to arrive.  And this is where I had a brief moment of contentment.  Paramore’s song, The Only Exception was on and my daughter began to try to sing the lyrics.  ”You are the only exception. You are the only exception,” and so on, and it just grabbed my heart and wrung it out.  Her tiny voice reached into that spot in my soul that only my children, and my husband, can seem to find.  It’s that place where my sarcasm goes on vacation, where my heartache takes a backseat to happiness, and any insecurities simply vanish.  We sat there for our few moments and sang quietly to one another as my son slept in my arms… and I never wanted that moment to end.  I know that one day, not too far from now, she’ll sleep through the night, will learn to say her r’s, will no longer wear pigtails, and will most likely be embarrassed to sing anything at all with me, so for now––I’ll take it.  I’ll store it in that sacred place where no one can find it and take it out when I need it most…

…when she’s graduating from high school or college, or walking down the aisle.  Cuz darling.  You are the only exception.