The good news, I realized later, was that he liked the camp and I could continue to work. He’s an uber-social kid. He loves hanging with older children and loves playing in general. The bad news: I couldn’t handle the screaming anymore. When he was two I had trained myself for it and had so much more tolerance and patience. And so, regardless of all the parenting advice I’ve read or actually been told by parenting experts in interviews over the years, I turned around and said loudly:
“Then GO back! Go back to football camp and see if your father can pick you up in an hour. I doubt that will happen. You’ll end up sitting in the lobby for two hours waiting for him.”
With that, I turned around and started walking down the street. My husband has a high-pressured job for a California-based company, so he travels a bit and when here is typically on conference calls between 5 and 8 p.m. Many nights he comes home and only gets to kiss William who’s already in bed. I didn’t need to draw more attention to that. I was just exhausted and under-appreciated.
After stomping down the street a few feet I turn around to the silence. My son is standing there with his mouth wide open, his balled fists by his side, his backpack on the ground. I am suddenly filled with such guilt and love. I run back to him and say I’m sorry, that he had just hurt my feelings. Suddenly, it was over. He takes my hand. We walk down the street towards Hyde Park. As we turn towards the #52 bus-stop, he says, “Can Max come over for a playdate tonight? I just wish I had a little brother to play with.” And then he sighs, loudly.
And with that added bit for me to feel guilty about, we ascend the bus and go up top to watch all the twinkle lights in London as we drive home. During the fifteen-minute ride, I’m going over our fight in my mind and how badly I handled it. Of course, I also wonder if I could possibly handle having another child. Could I go through the sleep deprivation again? Could I handle two-year-old and then, three-old temper tantrums again? Sadly, I just don’t know. I swallow down the guilt, but as always, it leaves a bad aftertaste in my mouth.
