We had one of those days yesterday. Actually we've been having them a lot, but yesterday was particularly bad. Bad enough that when Neil came into the kitchen on his way out the door in the morning, I was already so frustrated that I hurled a whole stack of defenseless Gladware at the wall when it had the nerve to topple out of my overcrowded cabinet.*
Sophie and I butted heads all day. I yelled at her several times before we even finished breakfast. And I can't count the number of times I yelled at her before the morning was out. And not just yelling, but YELLING. The kind that drowns out all other sound and leaves a metallic taste in my mouth. The kind that has me full of remorse before the sound has even exhausted.
I don't like yelling at my child. Not that anyone does. But I feel like such a failure when I yell. I'm the adult. I'm the one that is supposed to keep my cool when my daughter can't. She's only two and a half, for crying out loud. Yet, I do it more often than I care to say. Its like her ears can only hear me at certain decibels. And my voice can only reach those decibels when I hit the screeching stage of yelling.
I am capable of restraining myself from screaming like this at her in public, so why can't I hold back within the confines of our home?
This stage is tough. In some ways, she is so much fun and has made strides in minding me. I feel like some of the measures I am using have finally made an impact. We can now go to the grocery store again without me feeling like I want to hit the liquor store on the way home. But there are some days where she simply will not do a thing I ask without a fight. And the fighting erodes me. Especially when I haven't had enough sleep, which is the norm these days.
I just don't know what else to do. I don't know how not to yell at my kid.
*No Gladware were harmed.