It was an ordinary morning filled with the usual chaos of getting my older children ready for school. There were breakfasts to prepare, homework to complete, and lunches to assemble. Nothing particularly remarkable stood out; we had just returned from a family trip to visit my partner’s relatives in Scotland. My jetlag was palpable, and my patience was running thin. With my partner away for work, I felt overwhelmed and unsupported.
Our son, who had just celebrated his fourth birthday, was recovering from an ear infection. The pharmacy had forgotten to flavor his medication, and I had spent the past hour trying, unsuccessfully, to coax him into taking his antibiotic. After much bribery and coaxing, he finally gulped down the unpleasant mixture, just in time for his first day back at Pre-K after two weeks away.
As I glanced at the clock, panic set in; I had a conference call starting in 30 minutes. We headed to his room to get him dressed, only to discover that the novelty of his school uniform had faded. I laid out his shirt, and he erupted into tears, exclaiming, “I no want to wear this shirt, Mama!” I tried to remain calm as I explained that all his classmates had to wear the same one. The tears continued to flow, and any attempt at reasoning was futile. Each time I approached him with the shirt, he squirmed and kicked.
I sat on the floor for what felt like an eternity. With time slipping away, I tried to hold him down between my legs to get the shirt on. In a moment of resistance, he arched back, and his head struck my nose. In a surge of pain and frustration, I smacked his small back with force. The sound echoed, and his large brown eyes widened in shock before he began to cry. I was left stunned, feeling a mix of disbelief and shame.
I managed to pull the shirt over his head and quickly ushered him into the car, where I attempted to explain my actions. “I’m sorry, buddy, but Mommy is late for work. If I don’t go to work, I will be in trouble. Do you want Mommy to get in trouble?” I realized that not only had I broken his trust, but I was also implying it was somehow his fault.
By the time we reached school, his tears had calmed. We walked silently toward his classroom, his small fingers intertwined with mine. In that moment, I was struck by the enormity of what I had done.
Once back in the car, I let the tears flow. What kind of person had I become? Would he ever see me the same way again? Should I skip work and spend the day making amends? But I knew that wasn’t an option. I had broken a sacred bond. I was supposed to be his protector, and there was no way to reverse my actions.
When my partner called to check in, I couldn’t bring myself to share what had happened. I felt too ashamed to admit my mistake. What kind of mother resorts to violence? I’m not a violent person. This isn’t how a mother should behave.
Later that afternoon, when I arrived to pick him up from school, he was playing on the playground, joyfully racing down a slide. The moment he spotted me and ran into my arms, I was flooded with both joy and guilt. There was no way to rationalize the pain I had caused him.
I recognize that it’s impossible to parent without occasionally losing one’s temper. With three children, I’ve faced countless challenging situations without resorting to physical punishment. But that day, I made an irrevocable mistake—one that I will always regret.
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Summary:
The article reflects on a challenging morning when a mother lost her temper and struck her young son in a moment of frustration. Despite feeling overwhelmed and under pressure, she wrestles with guilt and shame over her actions, realizing the impact of losing control. The narrative emphasizes the complexities of parenting and the struggles that come with it, while also offering resources for support.