Sometimes being a mother of a two year old is hard. This morning Benjamin and I both cried over his oatmeal. Yep, both of us.
I must be a little hormonal, because I've been tearing up over the smallest things lately. A heartfelt song on the radio (although who doesn't cry at a country song every now and then, right?), a recipe gone wrong, a husband arriving home later than planned, and the most recent one, a two year old boy who refuses to eat the oatmeal he requested just a minute earlier.
I foolishly took a stand on this one. I insisted that because he asked for it, he must eat some of it. In other words, I tried to reason with a two year old. When he didn't follow my logic, I repeated it, only this time slightly louder. When he countered back with his own slightly louder voice, I turned up my volume even more. Finally, he ended up in his bed, crying, with me stomping out of his room, exclaiming that he will not get out of his bed until he eats his oatmeal. I think I even tossed over my shoulder as I was leaving something to the effects of "I'm the mom and you're the child, so deal with it." I'm sure he understood that one.
Nathan tried to help and get Benjamin to eat some of his breakfast that I slaved over a hot stove to make (okay, it was instant oatmeal cooked in the microwave, but it was the principle of the matter!), but to no avail. Finally, Nathan aplogetically kissed us both goodbye, one of us crying in our crib, the other one crying at the kitchen counter, and then escaped to work. I cried harder knowing that he was the lucky one, getting to leave, while I had to stay. Never mind that work for him today meant tearing out bathroom fixtures, laying tile, and reworking the plumbing in an old bathroom, all in 100+ weather. It sounded fifty times better than what I was doing at the moment. I would have gladly traded him, had he offered. I'm not joking.
Well, in the end, it all turned out okay. Two minutes after Nathan left, I pulled myself together, walked to Benjamin's room, and asked him if he was ready to eat his oatmeal. He said he was, so we both went back to the kitchen, sniffling, and there he ate almost 2/3 of his bowl, all without fuss. And just like that, life was good again. For this moment anyhow.
I must be a little hormonal, because I've been tearing up over the smallest things lately. A heartfelt song on the radio (although who doesn't cry at a country song every now and then, right?), a recipe gone wrong, a husband arriving home later than planned, and the most recent one, a two year old boy who refuses to eat the oatmeal he requested just a minute earlier.
I foolishly took a stand on this one. I insisted that because he asked for it, he must eat some of it. In other words, I tried to reason with a two year old. When he didn't follow my logic, I repeated it, only this time slightly louder. When he countered back with his own slightly louder voice, I turned up my volume even more. Finally, he ended up in his bed, crying, with me stomping out of his room, exclaiming that he will not get out of his bed until he eats his oatmeal. I think I even tossed over my shoulder as I was leaving something to the effects of "I'm the mom and you're the child, so deal with it." I'm sure he understood that one.
Nathan tried to help and get Benjamin to eat some of his breakfast that I slaved over a hot stove to make (okay, it was instant oatmeal cooked in the microwave, but it was the principle of the matter!), but to no avail. Finally, Nathan aplogetically kissed us both goodbye, one of us crying in our crib, the other one crying at the kitchen counter, and then escaped to work. I cried harder knowing that he was the lucky one, getting to leave, while I had to stay. Never mind that work for him today meant tearing out bathroom fixtures, laying tile, and reworking the plumbing in an old bathroom, all in 100+ weather. It sounded fifty times better than what I was doing at the moment. I would have gladly traded him, had he offered. I'm not joking.
Well, in the end, it all turned out okay. Two minutes after Nathan left, I pulled myself together, walked to Benjamin's room, and asked him if he was ready to eat his oatmeal. He said he was, so we both went back to the kitchen, sniffling, and there he ate almost 2/3 of his bowl, all without fuss. And just like that, life was good again. For this moment anyhow.
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