Nobody's Perfect

When your kids are scrappin' and screamin', there are few tactics as effective as the one I employed earlier this evening to stop their battle in its tracks--bursting into tears.

It had been a rough day, one complete with workplace setbacks and a day care drive-by that made me miserable about not stopping (too time-consuming and/or too difficult for the kids to separate from me a second time in one day, I figured). Plus it's hot today, and I didn't get much sleep last night, what with the wee-hours thunderstorm we had and the frightened little somnabulist it blew into my bed.

Excuses, excuses. I suppose a woman doesn't have to justify treating herself to a little cry once in a while.

The kids didn't like it much. It scares them to see a grown-up lose control. When they asked why I was crying, I told them what I've always told them when I come to tears in their presence: "Mommy's just tired." Then I retreated to my room for a time-out.

A few minutes later, our boy made his way quietly up the stairs and in the door. He came to the side of the bed, where my head was resting on a pillow. "Mommy, you'll have to remember to wake up soon, because it's almost nighttime," he said, touching my cheek gently.

"Mommy's not sleeping, honey. I'm just lying here for a while," I told him. Then I offered up a lesson against self-abuse. "Mommy made some mistakes at work today, and I'm feeling worse about them than I should."

In all his five-year-old wisdom, he said, "Well, a hard day is a hard day. But you shouldn't feel sad. No one is perfect. Not even the person who tells you what to do."

If he can come up with thoughts like that, I must be doing something well. Not perfectly, but well.