A few weeks ago, I was putting Little Miss Thing into the car with some fresh pizza we had picked up and one of her many baby dolls.  She was making a super annoying high-pitched noise that only small children can just invent on the fly and when I asked her to tone it down, she said it was her baby who was responsible for the banshee shrieking.

I asked her, in a tone that I was sure she would understand was non-serious, to please tell her baby that if she doesn’t knock it off, we’re going to give her away to another family.  My four year old instantly scolded me: “well this is my baby and I am in charge of her and I’m not that kind of mother.”  I explained that neither was I, but that the noise was killing me.  She obliged and we carried on with our day.  [Incidentally, she also told me to “listen up, June” at one point.  I am still laughing about that one.  No fucking clue where it came from.]

I don’t know what “kind of mother” she was referring to in that speech, with under five years of life under her sassy little belt.  For that matter, I don’t really know what kind of mother I am.  But I know this.  I hated the kind of mother I was yesterday.

We booted our little guy from his crib last weekend so that his new baby cousin – who is expected to arrive any day now — could have it.  And it has been an absolute shit-show.  Gone is my reliable 12-hour sleeper whom you could dump in the crib, smiling, at 6:30 PM and retrieve from the crib, smiling, at 6:30 AM.  [Don’t hate me – his big sister is actually the worst sleeper known to man, so it’s not like we got off easy in the sleep department.]  Instead, he’s been getting out of bed after every REM cycle, coming into our room and asking to go downstairs and make “doop” (soup) at 3 am (why????).  Or worse, opening the baby gate and going downstairs alone.  He refuses to go back to his bed and pours all 36.5 of his cuddly pounds into this resistance.

And to think, I had JUST gotten to the point where I thought I knew what was up and that I had sort of figured out how to be a working mom with two kids.  I had been doling out all KINDS of life advice to friends who are still in the newborn/infancy haze.  So I guess I had it coming.

Point is, it’s been pure fuckery every night and I am hurting.

Of course, this is not the first time the rigors of rearing small children and working full time have tested me – physically, emotionally, metaphysically, spiritually, you name it.  I’ve done the whole zombie-chic look at work.  We’ve had back-to-back strep, ear infections, and flu in a seemingly endless loop for the last 3 months.  I can DO sleep-deprived.  Sleep-deprived is my fucking middle name.  I love pain.

But for some reason, this particular episode has pierced through my typically well-fortified threshold for exhaustion.

After a long fitful night of 45 minute sleep intervals sprinkled with battles of the will and near-catastrophes (at 3:40 he tried to go into his sister’s room to wake her up to play – DID I MENTION SHE IS A SHITTY SLEEPER AND A FIRE BREATHING DRAGON), I finally let the little guy drag me downstairs to start the day at 5:25 AM.  He overruled my efforts to help him make his  chocolate milk and promptly spilled the milk all over the stove, counter and floor.  He continued to behave like an overtired two year old and at some point, once his sister had woken up on her own and joined the fun, insisted upon standing on her step-stool instead of his own.   Naturally, this drew loud, dramatic objections from a still-groggy Little Miss.

And I just snapped.

Instead of calmly removing him, reminding him that they each have a step stool, and offering him his own, I plucked him up quickly — and silently — and dumped him in another room.

And when he cried and tried to come back into the kitchen, I picked him back up and carried him back to the den.  I placed him down on his feet but he was so surprised to be put down that he didn’t lock his legs to stand and fell down onto the rug.  He looked up at me and just blinked – clearly startled by my quick, frigid action.  Confused.  Hurt.

Even at 2.5, he recognized that the intensity of my reaction was disproportionate to the stimulus.  And it was not consistent with the behavior of the mother he knows.

This little guy — who breaks out of his room every night just to be close to me.  Who holds my hand as he falls asleep.  Who offers me some piece of everything he eats (including the good stuff).  Who asks me if I’m happy — out of nowhere – all the time, and who just loves me way too much.   I punished him just for being a tired little person.  I treated him coldly and with contempt for not coping when I myself could not cope.

Of course, the one who deserves contempt and derision — or at least a stern talking to — is me.  [Luckily, I have my 4-year-old for that.  I’ll see if I can get on her calendar.]

I moved him from his crib to a bed with virtually no warning, no real preparation, no skills, no fallback plan, and no rules.  And just expected him to sleep through the night like he always has in his crib.  I asked way too much from him and when he predictably didn’t come through, I blamed him.

But, of course, it is my job as a parent to provide my children with tools to cope with difficult transitions and changes to their routine – especially when I have initiated those changes in their lives.  And, most importantly, it is my job to remain patient, kind, and loving when my children act, predictably, like children.  That’s what I signed up for when I made kids.

If we are tired zombies, then we are tired zombies.  That is not a reason to be angry.  Or to suspend fairness.  Or to administer rash, bewildering punishments because my patience wears when I haven’t slept in a week.  And if I want him to get back to sleeping through the night, I’ll need to actually do something about it.

That nasty goon who got up with my kids yesterday and lost it at them was someone I didn’t recognize and I don’t want to know.

I never want to see that face again.  The little one blinking back at me with shock and disbelief.  Maybe even a little fear.  That mirror was far crueler than any fat fun-house carnival mirror (I include the one in my bedroom – that thing is out to get me).

This weekend I’ll try out the traffic light alarm clock.  I’m not holding my breath; but it’s something to try.  And if it doesn’t work, I’ll try something else.  If necessary, I will put a latch outside his door like a little barn and keep him in there overnight for his own safety and to make sure he (and the rest of us) get enough sleep to fuel our lives.

As a matter of principle, I am not above yelling, sparingly, as a form of discipline sometimes – because sometimes it’s warranted.  And because I am a strong proponent of having realistic expectations.  I’m not above serving frozen chicken nuggets or putting kids in front of the TV with dinner (and at lots of other times).  I let my kids go out with no coats when they fight me because I pick my battles.  I’m OK with a lot of shit I think other kinds of moms probably aren’t.

But I am not OK with being scary, cold, or unfair when a small child is just being a small child.

So, I’m going to give that fuzzy little fucker some extra hugs tonight — no matter what kind of crazy shit he’s up to at 2:24 AM — and we will figure it out together.

Maybe by next week I’ll be back to thinking I know something about being a mom.