Tonight I was planning to write about what a great week I had last week, but then things went horribly wrong. My 13-year-old made me extremely angry, and I completely lost the victory. COMPLETELY. I said and did things that I am not proud of. (No need to call CPS. The child is unharmed; however, we now have two fewer ceramic cereal bowls...) And after my epic tantrum, I ran away...literally. (I actually ran two blocks to my friend's house! Very mature.)
My friend was able to talk me off the ledge (She has become quite skilled at it, having done it many times before.), and after about half an hour or so, I was ready to go home. But as I was walking home, I saw one of my older boys pull up in the drive, so I did what any mature adult would do -- I ducked into the post office and hid. Why? I'm not sure. Perhaps to give my other older son (who had witnessed the meltdown) time to download the evening's events without fear of reprisal.
It only took a couple of minutes to realize just how ridiculous it was for me to be hiding in the post office and just how awkward it would be to be discovered by an unsuspecting, late-night postal patron all tear-stained and miserable, so I did what an actually mature adult would do and left the toasty warmth of the post office lobby, braved the chill of the autumn night air, and trudged home to face the music.
When I arrived at home, I threw open the door and without saying a word, I marched right past my 17-year-old and my 19-year-old (who were still discussing what to do with a "mother gone mad") and took myself directly to my room. As I marched to my room, I happened to notice that my four youngest appeared to be asleep (or cowering) in their rooms. I threw myself on my bed in a heap of despair and waited.
After an indeterminate amount of time (Time loses it's meaning when you're a horrible parent.), there was a faint knock on my door. I bid the brave knocker enter. It was one of my 19-year-olds. (We have two -- one by birth, one by choice. One is still home. One is away at college.) Apparently it was his lot to try to appease me, since my 17-year-old had cleaned up the remains of the cereal bowls. 19-year-old asked if I was okay. I said no. He was very patient and kind as he tried to reason with me, but then his iPhone rang, and well, you now what that means -- later mom!
Still feeling desolate, I went downstairs to talk to my 17-year-old. Before I got too close, I assured him that I was not crazy. He looked at me warily and invited me to continue. I made my case; he made his, and then 19-year-old came down. The three of us talked for some time. Both boys made some very astute observations.
19-year-old had asked me earlier in the day why I had been in such a funk the past few days. I told him that I hadn't been in a funk and that I had, in fact, had a wonderful week last week, but he obviously saw something that I didn't, as evidenced by my anger which came out of nowhere and completely blindsided me. He told me that there was more going on than just overreacting to my 13-year-old's childish disobedience.
17-year-old went on to say, "It's too soon, Mom." "Too soon for what?" I asked. "Too soon to freak out." "Oh." I said. "When will it be time?" "Six months," he said and then, "A year is a long time..."
And in less time than it took for me to "freak out", my big boys had gotten to the heart of the matter. Yes, my 13-year-old was out of line, but there is more going on here, and a year is a long time. Before I left to go back upstairs, my 17-year-old told me that he didn't want me to cry myself to sleep. I told him I wouldn't, but I probably will...
(PS: After talking with my older boys, I woke my 13-year-old up and told him that I loved him and that I was very, very sorry for the way that I had behaved. He seemed to accept my apology and told me that he loved me, too. We'll see how he feels about me in the morning.)