Mornings, pt. 7,384

I blew up at the kid this morning, but what was notable about the explosion, however, was the realization that I wasn't really yelling at her. I wasn't really mad at her. I was blowing up at myself. I've had so much on my mind and have so many things swirling around in life — from the ups and downs of relationships to the holidays to worries about our brewing plans to money concerns to an endemic lack of sleep to every other little thing you can imagine — that I seem perpetually on edge right now. This morning it boiled over when a cup of water spilled. Granted the kid has a bad habit of leaning on tables, or the breakfast bar in this case, but doing so and knocking over a cup of water really shouldn't be a trigger for me to yell.

Honestly, I have to say that one of the most difficult parts of parenting is balancing all of these demands. And when you have your own emotional issues to navigate, the smallest irritations of life with a kid can be magnified by all the other pressure. This isn't the first time I've felt this, but what is different now is that I caught myself. In the past, I might have carried over the irritation and frustration to everything else. What I chose to do this time was admit to the kid that I was hurting and that I was sorry for making her feel bad. Very sorry.