I say that I write about real-mom moments and in order to be able to make that statement, posts like this must be written. Not just for the disclaimer to be true, but to make other mom’s feel less crazy. I love seeing a mom share a picture of her house in a complete disaster or read a post about the time she sat down and cried because of how hard this mom thing is.
I’m starting a weekly series called Mom Tales from The Trenches where I’ll share real-life stories from moms. These aren’t intended to teach or preach, just let it all out there. I hope you’ll feel a sense of community and compassion from one mama to another.
This first post is something I wrote back in September, 2012 when my son was barely 2 years old and my daughter was still a newborn.
I’ve said it many times but my absolute worst moment as a parent was when Brady burnt his foot. Last week I had an episode with him that climbed its way right up to the number one spot and took a seat next to it. Shook its hand.
My husband went to a flag football game and I decided to take both babies for a walk by myself for the first time. We had only planned to make it around the block but Paityn was already getting crabby less than half way through so we turned around and headed home. Brady had a few moments where he would rather not have his hand held but all in all the walk worked out just fine.
We got home and Brady wanted to ride his bike. Since it was sitting out front I let him make a few circles in the driveway. I took Paityn out of the stroller and told Brady it was time to go in and feed her. He ran out into the yard which isn’t anything abnormal and I yelled for him to come back, he usually always does. As he started to walk closer and closer to the edge of the yard I started to walk after him. Suddenly, he darted off into the street.
I started to run after him, baby in my arms, as he continued to run down our neighborhood street towards a much busier one. All the while I am yelling, screaming, begging him to stop and carrying a 3.5 month old baby I’m trying not to drop. I’m able to grab an arm somehow and I pull him into the yard kicking and screaming. I can’t pick him up with one hand and he won’t cooperate so I’m half dragging him to the front door. I was completely screwed in all directions because I was not anywhere close to the house or Paityn’s stroller to put her down safely – I would have had to lay her right in the grass in the middle of the yard – and no way to pick up Brady’s bucking 35 pound body.
Sweating and screaming at me he rips his hand out of mine and runs back to the street.
I am chasing him once again with a baby in tow who is now screaming as tears are filling my eyes while I’m saying, “Brady, please, please, please stop. Please!” I’m pleaded with him to just. please. stop. I reach out to get him and only manage to grab the back of his t-shirt which trips him, he falls, and the collar of the shirt burns his neck.
Another drag to the yard and he flops down onto his belly, screaming.
I look up and our neighbors are outside staring. Now, I’m mortified.
They’ve grown to know us over the years and really love Brady. The woman opened her fence gate and came out to offer a hand. She picked Brady up kicking and screaming and carried him to our front door for me, reassuring me that she’s been there, after all, she has twin boys, you know. I apologized to her, thanked her, put Brady in his room and I lost it.
I cried and cried and cried some more while Brady is thrashing around his bedroom in the largest fit I’ve ever witnessed in my short mom-life. We were both a mess sweat and tears.
A few minutes later, barely able to catch his breath he brought me four of his stuffed animals as a peace offering and said, “Mommy, my buyed you something. Are you mad?”
I could never be mad at that boy for longer than a minute, no matter what he does. I called my mom, talked it out, caught my breath, wiped my tears, gave him a hug. Tomorrow will be a new day.
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