I know I’ve written about this before (and banged my head on the wall over them about a million times,) but I’m hopeful that maybe doing it again may help me breath a little better then next two days.
I can’t possibly be the only person on the planet who envisions things as being amazing, perfect and blissful, shoving nearly all of my eggs in this vision basket and hoping for the best. Right? Tell me I’m not the only one …
This gal right here does this A LOT. I stay too busy most of the time, and my quality time with my boys — the husband, the biggest of my boys, included — is pretty limited. So when this time includes something more than the rote “getting everyone fed and snuggled into bed,” I get pretty excited.
A couple months ago I took a Friday off work when Miles had that day off school. I researched ahead of time what hours were open swim for the YMCA so all four of us could go swimming together. Afterward we’d go to Sam’s and get frozen yogurt. And then, depending on the level of nap need, we would go to the park. Perfect day, right? Kind of day that dreams are made out of for 4-year-old boys, right?
Apparently not this, not for this little boy.
At every turn I was struggling with Miles. There were so many tantrums, tears, protests.
About 20 minutes into the struggle to get the kid dressed into his swim trunks — and I should note, he WANTED to go swimming — I stood in the hallway in tears myself nearly shouting, “I just want to have a special day.” After finally getting him, the baby and myself dressed and the million necessary accessories packed, we piled into the car and headed toward the Y. There was more tears and protests when we pulled up to the Y because it was the “wrong” Y; he wanted to go to the other one (which didn’t have open swim, mind you.)
Finally in the pool things calmed down, we all had a good time. Leaving after two hours of swimming went surprisingly smooth with the promise of frozen yogurt. But once we arrived at Sam’s the outbursts continued. I can’t even pinpoint what started them, not because I can’t remember but because there was no real reason. But before we even made it into the story Michael and I turned to each other, once again my eyes filled with frustrated and sad tears, and decided we just needed to go home.
My expectations were of this perfect day — sunshine, rainbows and ice cream. What could be better, right? But nothing went as expected. Looking back — several months later — I still can’t really pinpoint what happened to create the chaos. He’d gotten a good night’s sleep, he ate a good breakfast, he wasn’t sick. What I can pinpoint is that he’s four. Yep. That’s about all I have to say, AND I have to remind myself of this ALL the time. He’s still working on figuring out how to express his emotions, frustrations, feelings. Maybe he was just having a bad day; I have them too. But I’ve had the privilege of nearly 30 more years on this planet to figure out how to control, process and deal with that than he has.
So, with all that said … I’ve been spending the more responding to the standard, “What are you doing this weekend?” excitedly talking about my “perfect weekend.”
I know, I know, wanna laugh with me about that!
My expectation: Tonight we are all going to camp out on the living room floor in cozy jammies and watch “Polar Express” and drink cocoa and eat homemade cookies that Miles and I made a couple hours earlier. And then Saturday we are all going to giggle and smile and ride the “Polar Express” in French Lick.
It’s totally going to go just like that, right?