The Terrible Horrible No-good Very Bad...Mom

Today was a lose for me, as a mom. We got the flu in our house yesterday, starting with Sam. He's better now, though he still doesn't have much of an appetite, but today I've been feeling it. I'm not even sure if that's what I have, since I'm not throwing up or anything, but I've just felt really cruddy in general, and weak and dizzy and exhausted, and my stomach hurts when I eat anything.

Anyway, it was just one of those days. You know, where the kiddos stay in pajamas all day, the dishes don't get done, the house doesn't get clean, dinner doesn't get made... And when I'm not wiping butts and feeding kids or rocking babies, I'm just lying around on the couch telling myself I don't really need sleep.

I'm filthy. My kids are filthy. My house is filthy. And all I want to do is snap my fingers and make it all better: my kids, myself, my husband. So what do I do?

Lay around instead.

And I want to shower. And exercise. But what do I do?

Lay around.

I feel so unproductive and like a waste of space, counting on tomorrow because today is already out the window. And then it all gets tied up with the prettiest bow that crap can be topped with: my son telling me hates me.

I was in the recliner trying to rest and Sam wanted so badly to sit there with me and cuddle, and I was fine with it as long as he kept his legs to himself. I told him 3 times not to kick me. But have you ever heard of a four-year-old that can actually keep their legs still? I haven't, and I got upset after the third time. So, rather than wasting my breath again, I forced him off the chair and told him to go sit on the couch.

Immediately, already, I'm hating myself, wondering if I should get the medal for worst mom in the world because I denied my first born child cuddling rights (though I doubt it'd be a medal. Probably more like poop in my face or something). And then, with hurt in his eyes, he sits on the couch and says, "Don't talk to me anymore, because I hate you, Mom."

Ugh. Talk about a dagger, right in the heart. That hurt. Literally. And that was the first time he's ever said it to me (though he has said it to Dave in the past).

Now, I've always been a big hater of the word hate (pun intended), especially when in reference to a person...and even more, a loved one. I grew up never allowing myself to even think the words "I hate you" in the direction of my parents, and I am proud to say that I have never uttered those words to them.

My son is four and he's already told me that.

I guess the positive side to this is that he really doesn't know any better, when it all comes down to it. He's just mad and doesn't grasp the true meaning of the word hate, and I really do get that.

But it still hurts.

Sigh

There's always tomorrow.