Friday was one of those days. You know, you probably have them yourself. Every time you start a job, it ends up creating more work. Nothing gets finished. If I’m to tell the truth, and there is little point in doing otherwise, my whole week had been like that. Somehow all the things I didn’t manage to get around to earlier in the week turned up overdue on Friday.
I knew it would be a day of chores, and Cubby would not be pleased about that. At least Pudding is at school all day on Friday. To appease Cubby, I decided to take him to the Tot Time at the local community center. It seems every mother in the vicinity had the same idea, and after 20 minutes of overload, we retreated.
I stopped off for cleaning supplies on the way home, then it was time to give Cubby a snack before nap time. As he finished eating, Pudding’s teacher called- she’d had diarrhea and needed to be collected. 10 minutes before we arrived at the school, Cubby fell asleep. He woke up as soon as his rambunctious and very healthy-looking sister got in the car.
Most of you already know this, but to those of you who aren’t aware, I should tell you that a nap of less than an hour is worse than no nap at all. It fills the child with a demonic energy that compels him to create chaos and destroy calm. When you throw in Pudding, that mix is combustible.
I spent the day putting out fires, and by the end of the afternoon I was burnt out. Any patience remaining was extinguished.
Spectrummy Daddy came home from work and took over, but my bitter mood lingered. I was shouting at the kids, and they were feeding off my toxic energy. As I put Pudding in yet another Time Out during dinner, I had a moment of clarity: I was the problem here!
With a dramatic flare that teenage me would have relished, I stormed upstairs with the declaration that I was on Time Out.
I sat on my bed, and after a few minutes the tension drained away. I could see the funny side. I contemplated giving myself one minute for every year of my life, but anything after 10 minutes would have punished my husband as much as the children. I went back downstairs to finish my food.
I swallowed my humble pie as I offered everybody an apology for my behavior. Really though, the next day that hits me like that, I’ll do it again. I don’t know why Pudding hates them so much: Time Out is just what I need. Who says they don’t work? We’ve just been using them on the wrong people.