The parent I want to be vs the parent I am
I know what I should do when parenting my son. Getting into confrontations and battles just doesn’t work. An argument: yes you are, no I’m not, yes you are… can fly back and forth without getting us anywhere. I need to keep my cool, offer choices and consequences, be consistent.
But in the heat of the moment, sometimes I find it so hard. When it seems that every request is met with defiance, when there’s more whinging than talking, when we’re both repeating ourselves a dozen times. I want a Jaffa cake. Get your shoes on. I want a Jaffa cake. Get your shoes on. I want a Jaffa cake. Get your shoes on. …
Today I asked him to stay still while I put on his socks. I’d done one and he decided he wanted to turn the bedroom light off. I could have, should have, just let him go, turn the light off, and come back for the other sock. Instead, I was so cross. I’m sick of being challenged, ignored, disagreed with. I was going to get that sock on no matter what, and so I did, with his leg pinned tightly under my arm as he tried to twist and wriggle away, giggling constantly as if it was all a big game (which of course to him, it was) while I seethed, livid with rage.
I want to be consistent, to set firm boundaries, to pick my battles, to be loving and supportive. I must try harder.