Hey, you know when your kid busts out the Play-doh and you have to bust out the Xanax?
What? … that’s not a normal thing?
WELL FOR ME IT IS. And I am not kidding. At all. I’m not OCD, I just have a control problem. And poor Kiddo has to deal with it every day. I don’t care if his room is clean, or if my house is clean for that matter. What I do have a problem with is how he does things. I become so tense while he colors a picture, or builds things, does puzzles, plays t-ball, etc. I just want to be like, “Just let me do it, you aren’t doing it right.”
Parenting with anxiety is so hard, y’all. Heck, I even get stressed at the park when another kid is doing something and I can’t control the situation. I know, I really know. I’m working on it. But please… please try to understand:
If you can look at that picture without cringing or holding your breath or, you know, crying… then you are a wonderful mystery to me. Also, I’m in awe. Because even posting that picture physically hurts me. PHYSICALLY HURTS.
I’m yelling a lot in this post. See? I’m tightly wound from this.
I hate the idea that Kiddo is going to possibly grow up also being so tightly wound because his mom won’t give him any room to breathe. So I try to let the little things go. That’s what everyone tells me to do, let the little things go. The hard part is, my anxiety won’t allow my brain to tell the difference between the little things and the big things. To me, the play-doh colors mixing is a big thing. To me, my child twirling in the outfield at his t-ball game full of other 4 year olds twirling in the outfield is a big thing. I have a hard time focusing on the fact that he’s having a blast, he’s enjoying the sunshine and the grass. He’s enjoying playing with friends and socializing and freedom as his mom is confined to the dugout.
My mind is in a constant battle with itself. I’m yelling at him for not doing something the way I want him to, while my mind is yelling at me for yelling at him over something so stupid. Yet I can’t stop. I know you guys, it’s exhausting being me. I actually say that to my therapist a lot, “It’s exhausting being me.”
But I’m trying. So what if I had to take a pill for my anxiety to get through it? It’s a start. And you know what? He mixed like 7 colors together. I might have had to chant “You can buy new ones at the dollar store. You can buy new ones at the dollar store” several times in my head, but I didn’t get mad at him. I just accepted it and made my own stuff instead:
I might have had to take some deep breaths when he then grabbed this very cow and added it to his color pile… BUT LET’S NOT TALK ABOUT THAT.
Anyway, folks. Point of this post is to say that I totally understand if you yell at your kid because he grabbed a fist full of spaghetti instead of using the fork RIGHT NEXT TO HIM. It’s okay, really. He’s enjoying the food you made, right? Normally you have to force it down his throat, but no. He was so excited about it he just reached right in. And we can just let that go. I know I can… I uhh…mean you, I know you can. I would never have a problem with something like that. No, never.