(Not sure what #MicroblogMondays is? Read the inaugural post which explains the idea and how you can participate too.)
It’s Sunday morning, and I’ve had sleep full of random but vivid nightmares. Jeff’s alarm, set too loudly to the radio, wakes me at 6 in the middle of a dream which I realize is about work. It’s Sunday, one more day of freedom before the drudgery of my client work takes over again. It’s dark and cold and I crave sleep.
I am tired and out of sorts when the dog comes into our room and asks to be taken out, so I tell Jeff to get up and take the dog out because I don’t want to be awake and I’m going to try and go back to sleep.
Within seconds of him going downstairs with the dog, I hear the door to Owen’s room open. He ignores me when I tell him it’s too early and heads downstairs.
No more sleep for me, I need to get up. Jeff is planning on heading to the gym before I meet a friend for a long run. And besides, there’s a ton of stuff I need to do this morning: laundry, make a grocery list, get on top of the Christmas presents I need to buy later today so I can start the process of wrapping. One more weekend until Christmas, Karen. Chop chop! Get your ass out of bed and get going.
I am bitter.
I grumble myself out of bed and gather laundry, getting more and more pissed off about stupid things as I do. We seem to use our hamper as a shelf – there are no actually clothes INSIDE it, but they instead are piled on top and around. I need to clean off the top of our dressers again – they’re cluttered with stuff and look awful and I really need to get a shelf or a drawer to put all this superfluous stuff in.
I come down, baskets in hand, to see Jeff and Owen reading a Sports Illustrated together. And in my foul mood, all I can see is the stuff that ISN’T done: no coffee, the crockpot for our dinner for the Pats game isn’t going, despite Jeff telling me that he was going to set it up, and he isn’t even close to heading out for the gym, and doesn’t he know that I’m meeting someone in an hour and a half and he needs to get going?
And I say something, not very nicely, with lots of sarcasm and probably more than a touch of criticism in my voice. And Jeff reacts – of course he does, because I’m being an ass. And then, instead of realizing how Not Nice I’m being, instead I am yelling at him: Just GO. I WILL TAKE CARE OF IT ALL. All dramatic-like.
It’s stupid to be angry at all of this and I know it’s unkind but I’m pissed off and I’m tired and stressed. And I haven’t had coffee.
He leaves for the gym, understandably angry with me as well.
And O, sitting there at the table through this whole ugliness, says to me, quietly, Mom. I think you probably hurt Dad’s feelings. You weren’t very nice to him.
He is so, so right.
And I am struck with the idea: parenting is always looked at as being a teacher, a guide for your child. You are supposed to teach him how to be a good person.
Except I’m not sure that’s how it works.
Instead, HE is teaching ME how to be a good person.
And for that, I am very, very thankful.