I don’t know what happened between 7:58pm, when my boy was jumping up and down with excitement about the chocolate cake we were about to have for his great-grandfather’s 88th birthday, and 8:45pm, when he was screaming like I’d shot his foot when I tried to get him into the bath.
Whatever the change, I did not like it. As much as I loved him earlier that day, when he was petting rabbits and turning the brim of his cap sideways and in general being the most adorable thing that was ever adored, I started to hate him when his mood turned wildly south and my plans of getting him and his sister to bed calmly and on time so we could fly home easily today melted. I did not kill him, but I did yell at him, which happens from time to time and is always ridiculous: a two-year-old and a 34-year-old having simultaneous meltdowns.
This is the end of a five-day solo trip with both kids, and I’d like to think that I can handle that long and much more, because there are such things as Single Parents, and I doubt they have the luxury of self-pity. But it’s possible that for all my efforts to live in the moment and accept what the kids are feeling and just enjoy what there is to enjoy, it’s possible that I am the same narcissistic hothead that I was at the start of this process, the kind of dude capable of screaming obscenities at a prelingual two-foot tall love muffin just because my plans are being threatened.
And that, dear readers, is your Wednesday affirmation from DadWagon.