Bedtime Cannot Come Soon Enough Anymore.

It is easy and then, somehow, it is really really hard.

One moment I feel like I know what I’m doing and everything will be okay… and the next moment I question whether I should be allowed to parent a potted plant, let alone a child (or three).

For a second everyone is happy.. and then I exhale and everyone is in tears or yelling or hating on the person next to them. And sometimes it’s really hard to keep a straight face when I hear what caused the outburst. Reaaaaally hard.

We knew when we signed up for this parenting gig that it would be exhausting and emotional and that we’d question ourselves a thousand times each and every day.

Or two thousand if you’re me and prone to overthinking things.

We know there are no ‘right’ answers to fit every scenario, especially with adopted older kids. We know we need to parent them differently than we (or you!) would with a child you’ve had since birth.

And so I question. And ponder. And wonder what the hell I’m doing.

Little One and Middle One were hanging out with me in the store earlier, minding our own business and happily moving along, when Little One decided he could not possibly handle another moment under my fascist regime.

Y’see, the rule is that you’re either holding my hand or holding the cart or you’re in the cart. He didn’t like ANY of these options and his desire to run wild around a busy store was totally not going to happen. Because I am a Mean Mommy.

So he decided to fling himself to the ground and cry. And cry. And cry.

And cry.

And cry…

After waiting several minutes (while hugging him and wiping away tears) I asked if he was ready to hold my hand, hold the cart or join Middle One who was already sitting in the cart. Little One crumpled back down the ground and glared at me as if trying to burn a hole in my forehead.

A stand-off in Zellers! Cue the dramatic music!

I have to confess: at this point I was having some problems keeping a straight face. Really. Have you ever seen the face of a REALLY ANGRY four year old?

Instead of giggling, I scooped him up, plunked him into the cart, and began pushing the cart toward the check-out where we were meeting Coffee and Oldest One.

Little One responded to my scoop-and-plunk by wailing at the top of his lungs – sobbing as though I was trying to kill him with my bare hands. Even Middle One was completely perplexed by the whole scene.

I do not find outbursts embarassing. Yes, they’re loud and they’re messy but, reasonably speaking, they’re just a fact of life when you’re little and you can’t express whatever it is that’s upsetting you. Psychological torture won’t work on me – I can hum punk rock songs inside my head and TOTALLY tune you out!

Pushing a cart with a screaming child did not phase me in the slightest and Little One was perfectly peachy-keen again by the time we met up with Coffee and Older One again.

But of course I second-guessed myself every second of that little adventure.

Should I have stood in the men’s section for as long as it took for him to stop sobbing and choose to either hold my hand or get in the cart? I didn’t think so – I mean, we had to meet up with Coffee and Older One and we didn’t exactly have three hours to stand there. Not to mention, I figured he’d be a lot calmer once we had a change of scenery.

Was there something I should have said, or done, instead of scooping him up? There is no reasoning with someone (of any age) who is lying on the ground sobbing for a reason they cannot articulate, of course, and no way to make him feel better, either. Plus, there’s no negotiating with the rules – they are what they are and little people have to follow them.

We need to continue working on attachment – which means simply walking away and telling him “We’re leaving!” or “Goodbye!” (as my own mother used to do) is not even remotely an option I’d ever consider in a million years. I can safely say that will NEVER be something I’d consider doing with any of the kids.

I am not a yeller – nor would this have been a situation worthy of yelling – so that wasn’t an option to consider.

I am not a threatener – nor was there really anything to threaten – so that wasn’t an option to consider.

So, as I wandered, pondering those thoughts, I decided that I had done what was best in the situation. And then it occured to me that Britney Spears gets a parenting coach to follow her dumb ass around and help her figure out what to do in these situations and, dammit, I WANT ONE TOO.

Could you please add that to my Christmas list? Please?

It’s 9:30. All kids are in bed. I remember a time when I wouldn’t have considered this to be a reasonable bedtime for a grown-up but, ohmygod, I am so very tired.

Good thing we were warned about this, too.