I had one of those days yesterday.
A day when I was exhausted before I even stepped out of bed. A day when the demands seemed to overwhelm me. A day when when the sniffling noses and the whining and the car seat buckles against my numb fingers in the winter cold and the battles against the smallest, most ridiculous of things (like putting on toddler pants) seemed to build up a wall of bricks so heavy in my head I felt like I could explode.
Looking back, I’m so ashamed. I shake my head and think, how on earth could you get that mad at babies? How on earth can you not be a grown-up when they are so little? How can you be so horrible?
The sad and scary truth is, I am a mother who has felt it—that rage and that boiling temper, that over bubbling of a yell so fierce it hurts your throat, and when it’s over, you’re shaking and wondering who you are and what just happened.
I hate myself in those moments.
I hate myself after those moments.
I hate myself just thinking about those moments.
But still, I have had those moments.