What a Way to Start a Monday

I already hate Mondays, which makes me feel bad about that day of the week, if only it had feelings.

I suppose my husband and I have gotten spoiled with my son, at least to a certain extent. The kid is not even 3 months old yet and he’s sleeping through the night, on average about 8 hours. I’ve finally decided to NOT go to bed when he does now, in the hopes of trying to get my mundane chores accomplished. Unfortunately, I wish I hadn’t followed that routine on Sunday night. Of course, how was I to know that my son would decide to wake at 2:45 am and not go back to sleep?

I don’t know what happened and why he wouldn’t sleep, but when he does something against his normal routine it immediately sends up warning flares for me. What is wrong with him? Does he have a cold? Is it an upset stomach? Does he have an ear infection? What about a fever? Is he hurting? I start treating my son like a lab rat as I attempt to hypothesize and create causes and effects as I try to determine what could possibly be wrong with him.

By 4 yesterday morning, I was nearly at my wit’s end. He had eaten and didn’t appear to be hungry, but he also wasn’t happy. He didn’t want to cuddle, but preferred to stretch out and stiffen his body as I tried to cradle him close to me in the hopes of rocking him to sleep. He didn’t smile or want to play, nor did he have a dirty diaper. I took him downstairs, made a pot of coffee and attempted to find ways to soothe my baby. And here’s where I started hating myself as a mother.

My son’s constant fussing had me stressed and I could feel my patience starting to dissipate pretty rapidly. My blood pressure never really rises, but my frustrations were starting to boil over and I could hear a voice inside my head getting angry with my son for not being able to tell me what was wrong and for just being downright inconsiderate as to my feelings and what I had ahead of me for the day. I started to worry that I was going to lose my cool with my son and it scared me. It made me fearful of myself and I immediately high-tailed it upstairs to my husband. I told him he had to take the baby, that I didn’t know what I was going to do and I needed to step away. He quickly jumped in and saved the day, taking our son off my hands, but should he have done that?

All day yesterday, I spent every moment beating myself up as a mother. A mother shouldn’t get flustered. A mother shouldn’t lose her cool. A mother shouldn’t hand off her child so that she can compose herself. A mother should be a super woman, a nurturer, a savior, and a protector. Have I failed in my parenting responsibilities? Did my son pick up on this stress and become afraid of me? I certainly hope not.

I look back at my mother and I can’t recall ever a time when she was aggravated or flustered. I can’t recall a time when she was so irate and stressed that she started to panic and actually spaz out. What does this mean for me and my son? I have a lifetime with him and I’m not even going to be able to survive the first year without some sort of panic attack brought about by a wave of impatience.

Am I the only mother who’s lost her cool at such a young age?


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