Transparent Tuesdays

Issue 183

You guys,

Sam traveled to Canada for three nights. I told him to have a great time and enjoy himself. 

I’ll be fine, I assured him. I’ll be fine. 

On the second morning Layla woke up sick. Their daycare has a rule that if one child is sick both have to stay home, so I mentally prepared myself for the next nine hours alone with my kids before the nanny arrived at 3pm. I can do this, I thought. I can be a parent for nine hours. People do this every day.

From one moment to the next George was demanding something. First he wanted the red tray so I put his breakfast on the red tray. As soon as I carried it towards him he screamed that he wanted the blue tray. 

I told him, I’M BY MYSELF. PAPA IS NOT HERE. I NEED YOU TO HELP ME OUT. YOU ASKED FOR THE RED TRAY, SO YOU’RE GETTING THE RED TRAY. 

If Sam were here he might have just switched the trays. But I felt like I was being walked all over by this little 3-year-old and I wasn’t having it. I plopped the red tray down in front of him and squeezed my eyes shut while I wondered if my hearing was being permanently damaged. 

George grabbed Layla’s water cup and put his mouth on the straw. I snatched it away and told him he couldn’t drink out of it. She’s sick. He grabbed it again and I told him if he grabbed it one more time he was going to “break.”

Before I had kids I swore I would never put them in timeout. So now I call it “break” and pretend it’s different from timeout because it’s not a punishment. It’s simply removing him from the situation and giving everyone a little space. It’s not done with anger. 

Except it was. I was angry. 

George grabbed the cup out of Layla’s hands and broke a piece of plastic off the top. All I wanted was to carry him upstairs and throw him into his bedroom but now I had to fix the cup. I screamed louder than George as I tried with all my might to muscle the cup back together. It snapped into place but I had snapped it on the wrong way. I let out another scream as I lunged for a butter knife in the kitchen drawer and wedged it between the plastic. With the cup finally fixed, I grabbed George with dramatic force and dragged him up the stairs, flailing and fighting the whole way. 

When I plopped him down on his feet in his bedroom, he asked for a hug. I ignored him. I shut the door hard. He erupted on the other side as I grabbed my hair and did the same. 

WHY IS THIS SO HARD AND WHY AM I SUCH A PIECE OF SHIT????

I went downstairs to make sure Layla was okay. After two minutes I trudged back up the stairs and opened George’s door. I knelt down and told him I was sorry. I’m sorry for grabbing you so hard and I’m sorry for not being more patient. I asked for a hug. He didn't ignore me—he gave me one. We went back downstairs together and I promised myself I would be better next time.

Fifteen minutes later, something else happened and I lost it again. This repeated over and over until 3pm when Bella arrived. 

The next day was Saturday. I asked Bella if she could come over at 2pm instead of 4pm and she wasn’t sure because she was going out tonight with her friends. I told her to text me at 11am tomorrow and let me know what time she would be here. 

It’s 11am on Saturday and I’m on the back porch with the kids. They’re having a picnic, which means their trays are on the ground and they run around and don’t eat any food. My phone buzzes. Bella has a “headache” and is it okay if she “comes over at 4 lol”? 

I step inside the house and hold my head in my hands at the kitchen island. It’s only a two hour difference but I want to lock myself in my bedroom and hide from my children. 

I’m not fit to be a parent, I conclude. 

I do the thing I told myself I wouldn’t do—text Sam and tell him I can’t fucking do this—so now he can feel bad about being across the country while I’m home without any tools to communicate with a toddler because no one ever accurately explained to me what parenting would be. 

Sam walks through the door at 9pm Saturday night. 

How are you doing, he asks.

I lay down on the carpet and cry. 

—

Until next week,

Charlie