I'm a bad mom.
I grumble when Eli clambers into my bed at 5 a.m. I lose my patience when he won't stick out his feet so I can put his socks on or open his mouth so I can brush his teeth. On more than one occasion I have stomped away from him — my 2-year-old — and slammed the door while he stood wailing in the hallway.
But I'm also a great mom. I can get Eli from playtime to bedtime in 20 minutes flat and still have time to chat together in bed ("Talk to me about my day!" he demands). I let him ride his scooter to school and splash in puddles when it rains. I teach him about kindness and good manners and I hold back my flinch when he's sick and vomits all over me.
Some days I'm Supermom. Eli and I read books together and he walks companionably next to me. We share snacks and conversation and he'll say things like, "Great idea!" and "That's a good plan" and "Thank you, Mom!" I am like a generous benefactor, charitably bestowing gifts of screen time and treats upon my progeny.
Other days I'm unhinged and unmommed. Every other word out of my mouth is "no." We get into power struggles over whether he can do nonsensical things like sit on the bathroom stool while putting on shoes, or I refuse to give into his whining demands for "milk in a waaaaaater bottllllle" out of spite. (Why do you want milk in a water bottle, you tempestuous creature? It's a water bottle. Literally by its definition it is made to serve water!) Dreams are crushed. I am the meanest mommy in the world.
It's tempting to blame these incongruities on Eli — toddlers are, after all, mysterious and unpredictable, and what delights him one day may tick him off the next. (Earlier this week I was all jazzed to take him out for a morning run — I even sweetened the deal by offering to buy him a bagel on the way out, like the Holy Grail of breakfast foods — and literally on his way to get in the stroller he suddenly decided he wanted to stay home and eat string cheese instead.)
There's always a part of the day you're going to dread, when the gears grind uncomfortably against each other to bring things to a halt. I, for example, am spectacularly bad at getting Eli out of the house in the morning.
What I want to do: Get Eli to go the bathroom one last time and sit still so I can help him put his socks, shoes and jacket on.
What Eli wants to do: Run around the house like a madman, couple all his chuggers together, finish building a huge tower of magnatiles, take his pants and underwear off completely, hide under the table, beg for snacks, cry, find paci and soft blankie, request milk, refuse to go to school, et al.
Phil, on the other hand, is great at this kind of transition, because he specializes in throwing Eli a mini circus for each stage of the proceedings, which is something I refuse to do on principle because I am not a clown and I am not here to entertain you so I can trick you into putting your damn feet in your socks.
So every morning Eli and I do the same frustrating dance, in which I feel myself getting madder and madder — like a balloon slowly expanding with rage and the rage is ridiculously made out of the fact that my kid won't let me put his shoes on. This morning, in an epic parenting standoff of which I am the opposite of proud, I demanded that Eli pee in the potty while he wailed, "I wanna pee on the FLOOR!"
Obviously both of us have some growing up to do.
So what's essential — and yet so freaking difficult — for me to remember is that it's really in my hands; how can I expect him to be more mature when I'm behaving like a toddler myself?
So: deep breaths. I can be a grumpy mom, or I can be a great mom. What kind of mom am I going to be today?
(Not the kind of mom who consents to serving milk in a water bottle, though. I can tell you that much.)