Okay. This week has been the week from hell. Let’s just say there’s been stress or…uh…issues in every single facet of my life. I do stress okay. But I don’t do multiples stresses well. And who are the people to deal with the backlash?
My family, of course. Because I love them. So I can be myself with them. Even when that’s BAD.
But it works the other way around, too. I see the worst of them.
You can see where this is going.
It had to happen. The entire volcanic chain of the Hayoz clan erupted, sending bright colored sparks and searing hot lava all over the place. And the biggest eruption of all came from me.
In almost eleven years of parenting, I have never sworn at my children. I’ve screamed, cried, or done the freaky low voice thing, but I have never put a four-letter word out there.
Because of the week I’ve had, because of the week the kids have had, because of the sheer exhaustion of trying to get someone to listen, F*** was really the only word that fit what I needed to say. It has a power behind it, like the POF! of a punch meeting its mark. It embodies all the anger and frustration and disgust and fatigue I’ve been feeling, all in a compact box of four letters.
So I used it. I put all the force of my voice behind it and hurled it at my kids. Call me a bad mom. A horrible person. I don’t care. It’s something I don’t do regularly and so it has impact.
My girls’ mouths dropped open and their eyes got wide. And then they started bawling, big, blubbering sobs that washed out all volcanic activity, but that had enough force to flood us all.
I guess I won’t be doing that again.