Some days....

Some days, I question what I was thinking when I so desperately wished to be a mother. When the boy is having temper tantrums and nothing I do seems to help... Well, it leaves me feeling more then a little fustrated and like I've some how failed or missed some stupidly obvious solution to his problem. I mean, I'm an adult, right? So, I should be able to figure out what the baby needs, right? I've even got some advantage in having life experience in dealing with children.

It feels, sometimes, like no matter what I do, I'll still have a child who swings back and forth between temper tantrums and periods of brooding silence, refusing to laugh despite everything I do to attempt to coax one out of him.

What scares me, however, is the thought of turning into what my mother was like when I was little. I remember her temper and pots getting thrown across the house. We had a very small house and the pots were cast iron. I don't want to be that kind of a mother. I don't want to be that kind of woman. I don't want to terrify my child into behaving. I don't want to go into a screaming fit of fury over something, with my child wondering what they did to earn my wrath when the anger was at something entirely unrelated to what the child did.

When I get to the point where I just don't know what to do, I ... I feel horrible for putting him down in his crib. But I recognize that it is better to set him down somewhere I know he is safe and just walk away for a few minutes.