Let’s Start Over

I woke up late, I should say early. I rolled over at 3:30 a.m., glanced at the clock, and thought, ‘I still have about three more hours to sleep.’ Then I laid there, listening to my breath, trying to put off thoughts about what I forgot to do yesterday: take library books back, post on Instagram, send a birthday card. My husband got up for work at 4 o’clock, and I spread out in the bed, hoping to find a bit of comfort so I could lull myself back to sleep. I kept hearing noises – tiptoeing, banging. I drifted off into a strange dream, then woke at 7 to my children screaming, then the little one crying.

I felt exhausted, like I hadn’t slept all night even though I had gotten six solid hours, then maybe a couple of fitful ones. I hate waking late. My preferred wakeup time is 5:50, though I never set my alarm for it. If I wake then, I have a full hour before my kids come out of their rooms, a full hour to get my head on straight. But any time before 7 is preferable to still lying in bed when the kids come out and the day begins.

My son was crying, and I heard my daughter yell, “I’m just trying to get you breakfast!” I felt for both of them. I’ve always taught them to try to do things on their own first before asking for help, but it was backfiring this morning. I heard heavy feet stomp up the stairs, then lightly into my room. “Mom,” my daughter said. “Can you please get up?”

By the time I got downstairs, most of the fussing had been allayed. I kissed both children on their foreheads, then listened to their versions of what happened. “I’m so tired, you guys,” I said. “Just let me get some coffee.” Last night, we had a friend over for dinner. The night before, I was up late at my ceramics class. There wasn’t enough coffee in the world today. But I filled the kettle and put it on the stove, wiped my eyes, and put on some music.

Then the arguing started again. “You’re not my sister,” my four year-old shouted. That’s his response to everything now. Instead of saying he’s frustrated, he writes us all off – me, my husband, my daughter. I take a deep breath. “Guys!” I say, but they can see I’m wavering. I am wavering.

It feels like, no matter how many times I try to help them with their frustration and point them back to love, they can’t help but get into it. Maybe it’s just siblings. Maybe it’s our fallen nature and our selfishness (and no one is as selfish as a four year-old). But I’m suddenly flashing back to sitting in the truck with my brother while our dad was in the bank. We must have been about twelve and eight, and I was goading my brother with everything I had. Name calling, belittling, and finally daring him to hit me. Then, he did. He reached back and punched me square in the nose. But when our dad returned, he didn’t talk to us about our choices or restoring our relationship. We didn’t apologize to each other. Dad just shrugged and said something about how I got what I deserved.

When I became a parent, I swore my children would be friends. We’d be the kind of family that said we were sorry and always kissed each other goodnight. We’d fight not with each other but for each other, and at the end of the day, we’d restore whatever might be broken. But this is easier said than done. In fact, it takes a tremendous amount of work and intention, and for this mama who didn’t grow up with that attitude, it takes a ridiculous amount of energy. Energy I didn’t have this morning. So, it was confession time.

This often happens when my husband is at work and I’m home with the kids. He works for twenty-four hours, so I’m with them for a handful of hours more than that, trying to parent them on my own, and often failing because my partner is gone. Or it feels like failing because I can’t be in two places at once or because I can’t be two people at once. Here’s the script: “Guys, I love you, but I’m having a hard time. I’m very tired (or impatient or frustrated or emotional or whatever). I’m sorry. Let’s start over.” Some days, I say it over and over while I alternately cry in the bathroom. Today, they listen, give me a hug, and suggest we play cards.

I finish making my coffee and sit across from both of them, as they’ve teamed up against me in Skip-bo Junior. The Lumineers are playing in the background and this hot coffee feels good in my hand. I shuffle, then deal, and we begin. I turn the cards over and my daughter says, “Mom, I’m gonna beat you this time.” We both laugh, and I say, “We’ll see.”