The Reset Button

Some parenting days are worse than others.  I've recently had one of the bad days.

When we had one child, I was able to address her behavior the moment the ill behavior was exhibited.  Nipped it right in the bud even though Ainsley was a typical two year old who wanted to run into traffic, throw her food on the floor, hit us, scream, what have you.

Nipped it in the bud.  Done.

Then we had three kids.  Those little rascals always seem to know when you simply cannot get up to address their issue.  It's when the oven timer is going off and the baby is crying and someone left the water on in the bathroom and the doorbell is ringing.

That's when they choose to test you.

And that's when I can be patient.  Patient enough to remember that every moment is a teachable moment.  Patient if I've had a modicum of sleep.

If I've gotten some sleep I can try to address each child's forays into the wild side.  (And Durham's wild side appears to be much more aggressively wild than Ainsley's was.)

But there are days when everything goes wrong hour after hour.  I drop Ainsley off at school, and Durham has yet another tantrum.  An aggressive tantrum in which he's kicking and hitting me while I'm trying to carry him and his crying baby sister back out to the car.  One that causes all the other parents and school workers to give me the look.  The look that says, "Shouldn't you be addressing this behavior rather than just carrying him to the car?"

And then he'll get so upset that I won't let him play in the rain that he throws the remote control so that it nearly hits his baby sister.

And then Ainsley refuses to eat anything except candy and decides to exhibit a Durham-like tantrum in order to get what she wants.

And then I find marker all over the white carpet and walls.

And then I find Durham throwing cars into the toilet.

And it goes on and on until bedtime.  Sweet, sweet bedtime.  The ideal parenting time to slow it down, talk about the day, read books, and pray together.  Except that's not always the way bedtime goes.

Not on the bad days.

And so everything has gone wrong, the kids are ill-behaved, and they are all crying.  I'm coming unglued from the thought of all the dishes and laundry and cleaning I'll finally be able to do once the kids finally go to sleep.  I just need to be patient with them for 30 more minutes and then I'll be free.  And when Mama has only gotten 6 hours of sleep in the last 48 hours, it's hard to continue to be patient even for 30 more minutes. I've been looking at the clock all day, waiting for that sweet moment when they are all sleeping and I can recharge.  When I can put a terrible day to rest.

These are not the nights for Durham to kick the walls in his bedroom, walking up his baby sister, but that's what will happen.  Over and over, even after I've tried addressing it multiple times.

These are not the nights for Ainsley to have to get up 5 times in an hour to use the bathroom, but that's what will happen.

These are not the nights for Wrenn to decide that she only wants to be held and walked and bounced and fed and re-diapered at the exact moment that Durham is kicking the wall and Ainsley is stuck behind a gate needing to go to the bathroom, but that's what will happen.

These are not the nights when I should care that the dishwasher needs to be unloaded and the dishes in the sink washed.  And care that I have no pants to wear because they are all in the dirty laundry or that there is still playdough stuck in the carpet waiting to be cleaned.

But that is when I lose all patience and good parenting skills.  That's when I revert to yelling.  Yelling at my kids as if they are doing this to me on purpose just to make me mad.  As if they really wanted to hurt and embarrass me.

Yelling and spanking for those older kids who refuse to cooperate with the plan of going to sleep in order to end a perfectly horrible day.

And once everyone is finally asleep, I'll feel enormously guilty for disciplining in anger and frustration.  Guilty for the things I said and for resorting to spanking when I couldn't find words or age-appropriate measures to get them to cooperate.

And I'll cry myself to sleep wondering how much my kids hate me and need therapy when they are older.  Will they ever want to talk to me?  Will they ever want to hug scary Mama?

And then we all sleep.  Sleep is a magical thing.  For me, I wake up refreshed with a full tank of patience and the knowledge that I can try to be a better parent.

And for toddlers and preschoolers, sleep is even more magical.  They have a reset button.  They wake up and oddly love me just as much as they've ever loved me.  They don't hold grudges.  They barely remember me yelling.  They just want to hug their mama.  And snuggle.  And sweetly demand breakfast for a brand new day.  They still run to me when they're hurt or sad.

Even when I'm the one who hurt their heart or made them sad.

I know I won't have this magical reset button for long.  Soon my kids will grow up and remember when I've made parenting mistakes.

But for now, in all their baby/toddler/preschooler neediness, their reset button is working and intact.

And yesterday's terrible, horrible day is long gone.  We can start over.  And tonight we will read and talk and pray just like we should.

Because I've never loved anyone or anything more.  And they are so worth the hard days.