I've been struggling with something I did awhile ago, and I've kinda decided that it really isn't all that bad, and hopefully it will seem even less so once I get it down and out here.

A few weeks ago I had one of those crappy days at work where too many people wanted too much from me and there weren't enough hours in the day to get everything done that was due so I fell behind and was blamed for the fact that I only skip lunch four days a week instead of five (or something like that) and when I picked Jake up he was acting like a maniac with the other kids and while we walked home he was being needy and weird and whiny and even though I know that means he is going through something and probably could really use some quality time I just didn't have any to give him because some dumb thing was happening at the house or with the bills or in my head and the cat wouldn't leave me alone and I felt bad for pushing her away because she is old and every time she is nice to me I think she is trying to say goodbye and my head hurt and and and I could just make up a million annoying things but I'm really just making up excuses.

Before I had Jake I could hide in my room with a book or a movie or a healthy dose of Nyquil until daybreak on days like that. Now I hide in the laundry room and fold stuff and try to think about getting the seams even instead of whatever is bothering me or I stand at the sink and do the dishes because at least I'm doing something constructive and no one (read: Dave and Jake, not that they would, but still) can say that I'm wasting time or being reclusive because Can't! You! See! I'm! Working! Here! Dammit!

Anyway. I don't feel bad about doing the dishes or being cranky or hiding out with the socks. What I felt bad about is I had Jake tugging at my pajama strings all evening and I had had it up to the ears with the sass and whining and the demanding and I turned around from the sink and kinda lunged at him and screamed either "JACOB, WHAT?" or maybe it was "WHAT, JACOB?" and I don't know why I would have yelled because I'm not a voice raiser at all and I certainly don't want him to think that yelling is okay because he sees me doing it but it was the lunging that really made me upset. I've never slapped or spanked him, but I feel like somewhere in the visceral reaches of my being I wanted him to shut up and be scared of me so he would leave me the hell alone.

He didn't even jump, which I'm really glad about. If he would have jumped I would have freaked because I would have felt like he thought as though he was going to get hit and I would have wondered who in the world would have hit my kid to make him jump when someone comes at him like that. He took one step back and laughed and said "Mommy, are you okay? You almost fell!".

And then I cried.

And then he asked why I was so sad and I didn't have a good answer so he gave me a hug because "hugs make sad better and don't cry Mommy, you didn't fall down you just slipped a little and got scared".

I really do pride myself on being a calm, quiet, consistant parent who can outwardly deal with just about anything a tiny person throws at me even if I'm seething on the inside but something that day really sent me over the edge. I didn't raise my hands at all but I raised my voice. There is nothing I hate more than a loud mouth. There were loud mouths in my house while I was growing up and it made me resent and disrespect the people they were connected too. I don't want to be that person. I certainly don't want to be that parent. I jumped at a child. My child. It sounds so silly and meaningless and he wasn't scarred or scared or anything but I. Jumped. At. My. Child.

Is that how it starts?

Of course not. I know that about people, about myself. But I can't stop thinking about it. I know that it is totally natural and normal to snap. But it isn't natural nor normal for me and that scares me. And scars me.

One of the biggest things I had to go through as a new mom is dealing with certain things that happened to me while growing up. After I had Jake it all came rushing back so fast I couldn't stay on my feet.

I wondered why if I was truly loved the way I love my son how could they treat me that way? How could they let someone else treat me that way?

Or does it switch at some point? Is there some point where you stop feeling so overwhelmingly in love with and responsible for your child that it makes a little bit of XXXXX towards that kid and a little bit of YYYYYY just a few times a month and just a touch of ZZZZZ every once in awhile okay?

Times like these make the irrational part of me think that yes, there is a point where you can start to yell, to lunge, to slap, to insult, to, to, to. Times like this make me think that maybe there is a small part of me that doesn't love him the way I thought I did, unconditionally and unwaveringly and even when he is being a total douche.

I'm trying to carry that awful sick feeling around with me for a little while because it helps me be more patient and kind and quiet. I'm trying to drop it because it is an awful sick feeling and it's getting me down.

This stuff is hard.