Sometimes I don't like my kid.

On not being too thrilled with my expressive toddler right now.

Now, I Understand

An older piece of writing from a writing prompt during a workshop entitled “Memoir & Motherhood,” written in the throes of depression.

I went home intending to lie in bed for four hours. I wanted nothing more than to retreat to my room, lower the shades, lock the door, and hear only the sound of my silent tears hitting the pillow. At that moment, I no longer wanted to be someone’s mother. I did not want to be needed. I most certainly could not cater to anyone else’s cries–I barely had the spoons for mine. I only wanted to focus on being and doing absolutely nothing. Even though I had a laundry list of things that needed to be done–packing and unpacking, decluttering and purging, laundry, writing, and so on–I could not and did not want to do any of that shit.

I needed to quiet my thoughts and have a break from my existence. I didn’t want to be. I had no energy left to exert on anything. For anything. For anyone. I turned my phone off. I ignored everyone who needed my attention and pretended for a moment that life had stopped. Just for a moment.

Now, I understand her. I empathize with her. Am I her?

That day, we occasionally knocked on her door and called her name—nothing. We even entered several times to check for breaths, but she remained silent and eventually revealed that she was ignoring us. Hurt, frustration, and anger swelled inside me as I realized she didn’t want to be bothered by us. I felt like she hated that she had no choice but to raise us, feed us, and love us.

But now, I understand. Maybe, just maybe, she, too, no longer wanted to be a mother at that moment. Perhaps she, too, wanted to hear nothing more than the sound of her silent tears hitting her pillow. Instead, she heard the nagging cries of four children who needed her to continue to be. We thought she was dead. But maybe she, too, was struggling with not wanting to be or exist. Just like I am now, perhaps she, too, wanted nothing more than not to do anything at all. Not go anywhere or interact with anyone–especially not the little ones who needed her.

Maybe, just maybe, she, too, no longer wanted to be a mother at that moment.

And now, I understand.

You see, sometimes I don’t like my kid.

I listened to “I’ll Show Myself Out: Essays on Midlife and Motherhood” by Jessi Klein. One essay in particular resonated with me deeply, in which she talked about the exhausting fight of feeding a toddler. She gave the example of only having a puch on hand that her son suddenly disliked, unbeknownst to her. Before that moment, it was his favorite. Instead of eating the pouch, he screamed and cried because he was hungry. I’m paraphrasing because it’s been a while since I listened, but this was the gist. She became so frustrated with the back and forth and his adamant refusal that she yelled and stormed out of the room. She wished that stories about “good mothers” in the media included times when they inevitably lose their shit with younger kids. Often, we see “good mothers” in sitcoms and movies. They usually have the most perfect thoughts about and reactions to many of motherhood's challenging moments, leaving mothers struggling to feel alienated and more alone. Jessi spoke about needing more of this representation so that more mothers would know it’s okay and normal.

The other day, my lovely Sweets asked for her favorite meal–rice and chicken nuggets with ketchup. You had better not forget the ketchup, and it had better be on the rice. She repeatedly asked for it. When I fixed it for her, she took one bite of her rice and said, “Yuck! I don’t want rice and chicken nuggets with ketchup. I want something else!” I told her that she would not be getting anything else and that she needed to eat what she asked for. The waterworks quickly began. I know what her different cries mean, and this one signified that I had hurt her feelings. She wouldn’t let up. I asked her to eat her food, but she cried no and yelled that I made her sad between sobs.

Eventually, I gave in, losing the current battle, and asked her what she wanted to eat instead. She replied, “Food!” I started naming possible meals, and she said “yes” to a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. As I began to get the bread out to make the sandwich, she stopped crying. As soon as I started spreading the condiments, I looked over and saw her eating her rice and chicken nuggets with ketchup with a smile and dried tears on her face. “Yum,” she exclaimed, “I don’t want peanut butter and jelly, Mommy. I’ll eat the rice and chicken nuggets with ketchup instead.” Frustrated and on the verge of tears myself, I obnoxiously yelled, “UGH!” and ate the damn sandwich myself.

It is becoming increasingly difficult to remember that I am the only one with a developed brain. She has only been on this earth for four short years; she is still learning the world's ways. I am one of the two main humans responsible for making her a decent human.

I’m too sensitive for toddlers.

I recently caught up with a good sister-friend who called to check on me. My favorite part of the conversation was talking shit about our toddlers. And my sister-friend has two herself so I knew she OVERstood my current motherhood frustrations. Sometimes, these little MFs are so audacious, so irrational, and oh-so combative. Everything is a conversation and question. Big, BIG feelings are ever-present, and it’s their way or bust! (Wait, am I a toddler?)

My lovely Sweets has also taken a liking to telling me whatever she’s thinking about me now. Especially the size of my body. “Mommy, why is your belly so big?” “Mommy, is there a baby in your belly?” “Your belly is too big, Mom; you have to eat healthy foods.” And she’s also decided to tell me every time I get a haircut that I “need long beautiful hair, not haircut like a boy.” And while, again, I know that her brain is still developing. But my fully developed brain is sensitive, and my feelings matter even when it comes to a child. Does that sound silly to read? Because it felt ridiculous to type. But it is my truth, so it stays, foolish or not.

The other day, as we were leaving to head to daycare, Ava said, “Mommy, I don’t like you. I love you, though.” I asked her to repeat herself just so that I knew I heard her correctly. Granted, a few days later, she retracted the statement and made sure to tell me that she both liked and loved me. I guess we have similar feelings about one another.

She also has a preference for her dad right now, and it’s been that way for a while now. She is not shy about letting this preference be known. Like I said, I’m a sensitive one, so I’m occasionally in my feelings. For a few weeks she would express such disappointment that I was picking her up from school and not her dad. She’d pout, fold her hands, and say, “Noo, it’s Dada’s turn. I want Dad!” Or, she would cry most, if not the whole way home, asking if I could drive her to her Dada’s house and not mine. Her father would try to soothe my little hurt feelings by saying her preference is because she has no structure at his home (his words), and she enjoys that freedom. But I’ve come to believe it’s because of a different reason that pisses me off royally. Just now, as I edit this draft, she whines that she wants to go home to her dad’s house and wishes it was his turn to have her—geez kid.

I hope this helps other mothers feel better about the fact that we don’t always like our children and that is very human of us and very okay. But, if you’re finding that dislike affects your parenting and mothering, please talk to someone about it.

Maybe next week, I’ll talk about the cost of motherhood.

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Currently.

Feeling — Full. I am in Atlanta with Ava, visiting a good college friend and her daughter, who is the same age as Ava, and my best friend, her Godfather.

Reading — “Waiting to Exhale” I recently watched the movie again and thought, “Hmm, I’ve never actually read the book.” It’s really good, so much juicier than the movie. Also started “The Loneliness Files.”

Listening — I just recently finished“The Bright Hour,” such a heartwrenching memoir.

Anticipating — My travel back home this upcoming week.

Contemplating — Ways to try and stay afloat financially while searching for employment.

Affirming — I will be okay.

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Similar to this.

Posts of mine with a similar vibe:

• From the morning page: I'm not enjoying this season of motherhood.

• Mothering while depressed.

• "Pleasure is your birthright," and other things I want my daughter to know.

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