I think I’ve discussed this around these parts before, but I have to bring it up again. Before I scrape my lemon zester across my eyeballs.

Little Man can talk the shit out of a day.

When he’s comfortable, in the company of people he loves, and anxiety-free, he talks NON-stop. NON. STOP. I’m not kidding, folks. I’m not talking about a little bit of chatter here and a little bit of chitter there. NON. STOP. As in, he doesn’t come up for air. As in, it’s difficult to get a word in. As in, there’s barely a chance for me to even thinkto myself, “Oh, gee. I need to pee,” or, “Ack. My mouth is dry. I need a drink.”

I’m guessing that you’re thinking I’m exaggerating. Because, honestly, if it weren’t  my child and my life, I probably wouldn’t believe it if someone else were saying it of their own spawn offspring. I’m not exaggerating. Not even a little.

Oh, and when he isn’t actually talking? He’s singing. Or humming. Or la-la-la’ing. Or asking his 63452nd question of the day that I, most likely, don’t have the answer to. Today we entered into a long-winded discussion (mostly one-sided, of course) about clouds and the different kinds of clouds and the different colours of clouds and why are there cumulous clouds today and why were there high-level clouds at the same time as low-level clouds and what does that mean for the weather later today or tomorrow and is there any way that we, as humans, can change the clouds and when we fly through them on a plane does that change the make-up of the clouds and and and…

…and meanwhile, I just want to know what kind of flavoured coffee Second Cup is going to have brewing today.

At some point during one of our conversations today, I tried to hurry things along and finished one of Little man’s sentences for him. This was his reply:

“That’s what I was going to say, Mommy. Before you ‘terrupted me!!!”

I’ve created a monster.

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I wrote the above earlier today. Since I wrote that, the day kind of went downhill, at the pace of lightning.

Bedtime is a routine in our house. There is a certain way that things are done and a certain number of things that are done and it’s all written down in a little note book. (Ok, now  I’m exaggerating, but just pretend I’m not, ’cause the story is more dramatic this way)

Because Hubby is out tonight and I really have just had enough, I tried to hurry up the bedtime routine a little. A little, folks. Like, I tried to get Little Man to brush his teeth in the tub, so that it was one less thing to be done once he was out of the tub. Now, toothbrushing in our house, with Little Man, is a difficult task anyway  (Thank you very much, SPD!), so who the heck knows why I chose to mess with it, but I did. It, obviously, wasn’t one of my most well-thought-out plans. Whatever!!

Little Man, for the third time in the last hour, decided that it would be a good idea to take my button that he was already pressing and hammer the freaking shit out of it.  Not his  best thought-out plan. I snapped. I did it. I snapped. Again.

There was a lot of yelling through clenched teeth and cursing all the while hoping that I’m screaming it loudly enough that he can’t possibly really hear what I’m saying so hopefully he won’t repeat any of it in front of his father, and then there were tears. From both sets of eyes between us.

Dammit to hell, why is this mothering gig so bloody hard? I didn’t sign up for hard. I didn’t even sign up for slightly more difficult than normal, never mind HARD !! Eff the HARD crap. My kid is bloody  hard.

I’m a person for whom so much of life came easily for so long. I was born into great friendships, some of which are still in existence. I was born into a family where love was shown openly by most. I had a ridiculously easy time at school, right through university where I took whichever courses I knew I could b/s my way through with the least amount of effort. I always had jobs that paid enough or more than enough. I had a mother who was my best friend. I found a man to marry who is quite possibly (and don’t even try to argue this fact with me, ’cause you’ll lose) the  nicest man alive. And on, and on…

Then I gave birth to Little Man. Oh, and did I mention that my mom died when he was 5 weeks old? YEah, remember her? My best friend. Do the math.

Suddenly I have a screaming baby who will be soothed by nothing, I’m grieving the loss of my mother and my best friend, and oh yeah, I’m having the worst bout of depression I’ve suffered in my life so far. Well, duh. Yeah.

Four and a half years later and not much has changed. I’m still fighting to keep my head above water with my difficult baby who is now a difficult child, I’m still grieving my mom/best friend, and I’m still depressed and bitter because “why me?”

I feel so pathetic and self-indulgent even typing that last bit because of the stuff that came before it. You know, the easy  stuff. It’s like it’s finally time for me to pay my dues. With interest.

I am so completely and irreversibly in love with my boy, but the love can’t erase the hard. Know what I mean? It just makes the hard that much harder because every time, like tonight, that I fail him and lose my grip, I’m so utterly blown over by guilt. I can’t forgive myself for causing my awesome Little Man any grief over something that isn’t his fault. However hard this is for me, it’s tenfold for my Little Man. He didn’t ask to have his SuperHero Nose that smells things even a blood hound would overlook. He didn’t ask to suffer anxiety attacks at the mere mention of babies or dogs. He didn’t ask for it to feel like a chainsaw every time the toothbrush glides across his gums. He didn’t ask for any of this. And it’s my job to help him through it, not  to cause him more  anxiety.

I really feel like I’ve failed today. Thank God tomorrow is Friday.