I lay down next to you so you could fall asleep like every night, and once you were snuggled up, I quietly slipped away to have an hour for myself. But after almost three hours, you woke up calling for me, so I lay down next to you again and we repeated the process. Once you were asleep, I went to my bed, but an hour later you woke up again, this time with little screams. I lay down with you as you asked, but then you started pushing me away, telling me you didn’t want me there, to leave. I explained that I wouldn’t go because I knew what would happen next, but you insisted and insisted, screaming and kicking. So I told you that if I left, I wouldn’t come back. You said to go. I left.
You started screaming louder for me to come back. I waited to see if you’d stop. I came back and tried to sit with you, but you screamed and screamed, possibly waking everyone up. I held on, telling you I’d stay, but after several attempts and with a mind full of fears—that you’d get used to me lying next to you and then wake up again when I’m not there, preventing both of us from resting—I told you and explained that this time I wouldn’t lie down with you.
You started screaming more, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I left while you kept calling me. I came back and explained that I’d stay until you fell asleep, that I’d hold you if you wanted, but your constant “yes,” “no,” “yes,” “no,” accompanied by endless screams drove me to despair. My nerves exploded. I showed you my nervous face, grabbed you tightly, telling you that mama couldn’t take all the screaming anymore, begging you to stop screaming—MAMA CAN’T TAKE ALL THE SCREAMING! You reacted with more screams, and I ran to the bathroom.
You didn’t know where I went, you got scared, but I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed to lock myself away, not hear anything, fall apart alone. But I noticed you kept calling me, screaming, and got out of bed. I came out and asked you to go to your room. I picked you up off the floor and started crying. You asked me to sit with you—“mami”—on the bed. We sat down. I snuggled you, and when you were ready, I tucked you in. But you asked for the blanket. I gave it to you, and you started screaming “no!” I took it away, and you screamed “no, no!” again. I asked what you wanted. You wanted the blanket. I gave it to you again, and once more you screamed, kicked it off, then asked for it again. I gave it to you reluctantly, telling you that was enough! That mama would stay until you fell asleep. And again, you screamed asking me to lie down.
I don’t like the mama I am. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I’m doing. Where is the line between consent, helping your child, and setting boundaries? I DON’T KNOW! I’m tired because people judge me for not setting enough boundaries, but what do they want me to do? Hit him? I won’t do that. I try to be consistent, but those screams sometimes overwhelm me, drill into my head, corner me. The exhaustion also accompanies me, creating a constant curtain of stress that leads to nervous breakdowns and crying.
And it starts again. The screams, the nerves, the breakdowns, the explosion, more screams!... Saying, explaining, yes, no, yes, no, explaining again, repeating, asking if he understood, and he doesn’t know what I said, and I repeat it, and again the screams, nervous breakdowns, and it starts again. I go out to try to breathe and hear more screams—“mami”—and I come back, and you don’t listen. I try to hold you, and you don’t let me, and again I can’t take it anymore. I leave, you call me, I come back, and more screams.
I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know what to do, and I break down screaming and crying because I don’t like being a mom, because I don’t understand what you want, because I try to be close and you don’t want me, because if I don’t follow exactly what you say, you ignore me. But I’m the adult, and I explain it to you and repeat it, and again a tantrum without sense—morning, on the bus, afternoon, before bed, at night... and sometimes I can handle it, but other times I explode. I grab you tightly because if I go to a space for myself, you scream, call me desperately, but if I go, I can’t hold you because my body is exploding. And seeing that I’m not doing anything right, and yes, no, and again—I explode!
And finally, I hold you while crying, unable to look you in the face, and finally you fall asleep. I tuck you in and go to sleep in my bed. And in the end, I didn’t take you to my bed because even though I sleep better with you next to me, you move around and you’re no longer a baby, and I don’t rest, and it leads to stress and yelling. But tonight I lie down and don’t sleep. I cry, try to sleep, can’t, grab my phone, put it down, still can’t sleep. I go downstairs, prepare coffee for three hours later, shower, cook, even get ready, and I’ve seen you. Finally, on the sofa, I manage to sleep, but the alarm rings. I change it for 15 minutes later, but when it rings, you call me.
Mama isn’t happy. You’re radiant. I ask you to eat breakfast, you ignore me. I ask you to please sit down, you finally do. Then I ask you to pee because you haven’t gone all morning, you ignore me. I ask you to brush your teeth, and you start playing, ignoring me. Time to leave comes, I ask you to sit so I can put on your shoes, you say no. I put them on, you take them off. I put mine on and ask you to help me buckle them, and while you do, I put yours on. But you take them off again. As I stand up, you scream “mami, mami help!” I help you, put them on, and as I open the door, again “mami, mami help!” You throw yourself on the floor, I give you my hand, manage to get you up. I go down the stairs with your bag, mine, the stroller, and you ahead, carefully so nothing falls and hits you. I open the door, you go out and start playing with the tree. I don’t have the strength, so I let you play a bit and start calling you, “come on, let’s go.” You ignore me but you’ve heard me. I wait again, start walking, you keep playing, I go back and repeat until you finish what you want to do and come.
You finally come but stop to get in the stroller. You want to climb in yourself. I remove the safety bar so you can do it better, but you scream, so I put it back and wait for you to climb in. You’re happy and energetic, and I don’t know how to handle it.
We get on the bus. While I pay, hold the bags, fold the stroller, and look for where to put it, I ask you to sit downstairs like usual. But as usual, you go upstairs alone. We go up, and I firmly and loudly tell you not to do that again. People are already looking at me. Suddenly you say you don’t like when I grab you tightly, and I tell you that I didn’t grab you now, but when you scream, mama gets overwhelmed. And you go back to your happy world while mama cries. You ask if I’m sad, and I say no, but I can’t even look at you.
The frustration of not being the mom I wanted to be keeps me from looking you in the eye. Between frustration and resentment, I leave you at daycare without giving you a kiss, because today I just CAN’T. And you leave without wanting to say goodbye, and I know you can’t either, because even though you’re happy, you know the mama you want isn’t here today. And I’m sorry. And I carry that with me to work, where today there’s no one, and I cry.
People want me to set boundaries, but sometimes the more boundaries I set, the more walls I have to build, and from exhaustion comes stress—that seed that makes me...
