It was before 11AM on a damp and dark Sunday morning that I found myself muttering nasty sentiments about my husband's lack of “listening” and how “as a matter of FACT we are never, EVER, on the same page. Like EVER!”
It was before 11AM that the house suddenly felt like it was closing in around me as the counters were filled with cupcakes, casseroles, and cream cheese for the bagels I thought we needed.
It was before 11AM that I tossed my hands into the air and announced to the entire family, children and all, that “I QUIT,” as pee soaked through my toddler's denim pant leg onto the freshly cleaned laminate floor.
It was all before the houseguests arrived, before the in-laws pulled up, before the three-year-old birthday party began.
On a day reserved for joy and fun and celebration, there I was carrying a bad attitude around like a kid who wasn’t allowed to have their fourth piece of cake.
Apparently, throwing tantrums aren’t just reserved for three year olds.
I’ll blame it on the back-to-back nights of completely shitty sleep due to the baby teething. I’ll also blame it on my absolute lack of preparation in planning a party where I over-invited and under-prepared. Because, “why would I stress over a toddler’s birthday party?” I told my mom only hours before. Ha.
The tantrum didn’t look good and it didn’t feel good and the distraction of the day and buzz of houseguests and crinkle of wrapping paper meant I wouldn’t have to face my husband eye-to-eye anytime soon to sheepishly say, “I’m sorry for being so shitty, thank you for making the pancakes this morning, and the dinner last night, and ordering the birthday present, and oh yeah, for not divorcing me on the spot this morning.”
Thankfully, three-year-olds and husbands have a magical way of forgetting about tantrums because the birthday party carried on. Despite my earlier resignation and dramatic theatrics, my family decided to give me back the job. They could sense the tension and graciously tiptoed around me like I was a china teapot. Afraid that with one wrong bump or blunder I’d shatter into small sharp pieces. I eventually lowered the tightened scrunch of my shoulders and sinch of my eyebrows as I watched my three-year-old puff up her lungs to eagerly blow out the ‘YAY!” candles on her rainbow sprinkled, white-frosted cake.
If you would have told me there would be a meltdown at my toddler’s third birthday, I wouldn’t have bet it was me.
But it wasn’t until 11PM that I realized the tantrum wasn’t about the party.
Behind the deep weighted signs and the steel-eyed glares was the truth. The truth that my eyes are burning from no sleep. That I’m over committed and under prepared for more than the party. That I’m saddened by how fast time is passing. That I’m in disbelief that my oldest is growing up in front of me when I SWORE I’d never let that happen. How dare they grow up.
It wasn’t until 11PM that I realized I can’t solve the constant state of tiredness that has become the norm or hold the hands down on the clock that is ticking far too quickly.
It wasn’t until 11PM that I realized my family has a special way of understanding me, navigating me, and letting me be loved. They are so gracious with me. Time will tell when I allow myself to do the same.
Oh, and it wasn’t until 11PM that I remembered the pee soaked pants were still wadded in a pile in the bathtub. Sigh.
This essay is my 4th essay while in Write of Passage Cohort 11. My favorite essays I’ve written during WoP are:
My minivan made me cry. & Get to know your neighbors.
A special thank you to my parents who’ve loved me through a lifetime of tantrums, my in-laws for graciously accepting my ‘bad attitude’ at the party and loving me anyway, and my husband who knows what a good sigh really means. You da best.
Writing is communal. Thank you to all of those who spent time editing these 599 words, your detailed feedback is so appreciated.
Let me know what resonates, or what doesn’t. Your comments keep me writing.
I want a collection of all the stories and poems that sigh. I think it's one of the best things we do as humans, and I delight in your choice to end this essay with a multi-faceted sigh.
I'm not crying.
Part of me wishes I could go back in time and repeat that meltdown - but I see I am living vicariously through you!