Totally guilty.

In [almost] four years as a parent, I think I can count on two fingers (get it?) the number of times that I have really, truly lost my cool with my child.

One of them was when he was about 18 months old and he and I were flying home from Colorado. We flew into Chicago because it's about a million times cheaper (flight-wise), and then drove to Grand Rapids from there. Fresh off my diagnosis, my breathing was probably at one of its worst points. Plus, I was on about 437 prescription drugs - 436 of which I am certain were making me bat shit crazy.

When we got off the bus in the long-term parking lot, we were faced with a pretty decent walk to our car. Being late in the afternoon, Thaddeus was without a nap and ready to call it a day. He insisted that I carry him. The problem was that I had my big suitcase, his big suitcase, a camera bag, and a laptop to carry first. He had no choice but to walk.

Of course, being 18 months old, he didn't quite understand this. And of course, being stubborn as hell, I opted not to bring a stroller because (a) I hate strollers, and (b) it was just one more thing to deal with that I wouldn't have been able to deal with. So, he refused. He threw himself down on the sidewalk, kicking and screaming, insisting that I carry him.

When I began to walk away, he began to chase me, kicking and screaming (still) to the car. When we finally got to the car, I was hot and sweaty, out of breath, tired, and completely unable to handle one more scream from my own child. I remember yelling at him loud enough in the parking lot to make him cry even harder.

Awesome.

I felt like Mother of the Year in that single moment. I think I even blogged about it.

So, here I am - over two years later. And guess what. Yep.

Yesterday, I totally lost my cool for the second time around.

And before I get into the gist of the story, let me clarify a few things:

(1) When I say "lost my cool," I am, in no way, referencing any kind of physical violence towards my child. While, yes, there are moments when I think a good swift kick in the ass might do my child some good, I would obviously never act on that impulse.

(2) I have learned that "losing your cool" is something that all parents go through at some point or another. I have read stories from people who I was certain made better mothers than Martha Stewart and Mother Theresa combined, only to find out that even they have moments of weakness.

(3) I have learned that those parents who insist they have never "lost their cool," are either emotionally unattached to their children, or they are lying. Or, their time is near.

And (4), "losing your cool" can be something as simple as having a total emotional breakdown at the overwhelming sense of being a parent to a child who refuses to listen, or refuses to behave, or refuses to stop throwing his baseball in the house, or - in my case - all of the above.

For me, losing my cool happened at a moment yesterday when I was at my peak of being stressed out.

Thursdays in the Jeter household typically mean that I am preparing to teach 3 classes in 3 days, while simultaneously preparing to attend 2 classes in those 3 days as well. Tom is at work, and then in class, so I am all alone in my endeavors to be a good parent, a good teacher, and a good student. And let me tell you, there has yet to be a week where I succeed at being good at each of those things all at once. (I'm not even sure it's possible).

Parenting definitely gets put on the back burner on Thursdays. When Sunday thru Wednesday involve total and complete attention toward playing baseball, playing basketball, taking walks, taking bike rides, having picnics, watching movies, cuddling on the couch, drawing pictures and taking pictures, Thursday needs to involve creating lesson plans and handouts, reading up on Securities Regulation, and outlining for Modern Real Estate Transactions.

Yesterday, while doing just that, Thad was stuck in the house because the weather was shitty and I didn't really think it was appropriate to send him out to play in the rain. When it's raining and mommy has work and school to do, that means you either need to (a) pick a movie to watch, (b) draw or paint a picture, or (c) entertain yourself with Legos, Matchbox cars, and that 200lb train table Grandma and Grandpa bought you for your second birthday that is slowly but surely turning into a storage unit.

But, being [almost] four-years-old, Thad didn't want to do any of the above.

He wanted to bang on my keyboard when I walked away from my computer to make a cup of coffee.

He wanted to play baseball in the house, and throw things at me when I wasn't paying attention.

He wanted to chase Mystic around the house with a tennis racket.

He wanted to drink 14 gallons of juice and cry when I insisted that, no, he could drink water instead.

He wanted to jump on the couch, and show me how he has perfected his belly flop.

He wanted to play Monster Trucks on my iPad, but only if it meant having the volume all the way up, and being able to navigate the different videos on You Tube that show up on the bottom right corner of the screen.

He wanted to stick his fork in the fan.

He wanted to open the sliding glass door and use the screen door as a net for his indoor soccer game.

He wanted to take a shower when I took a shower, and screamed and cried when I insisted that no, he didn't need one.

He wanted to stand at the sink and drink water from a Dixie cup while my curling iron was on high, not even a foot away from him. And when I insisted that he stay away from the curling iron, he wanted to throw his cup of water on the floor to show me just how unhappy he was that I wouldn't allow him to do such a thing.

He wanted to slam his door hard enough to cause my hand mirror to fall off its hook on the wall when I insisted that he throw his temper tantrum in his bedroom, and not in the bathroom.

He wanted to throw his miniature baseball bat at the window, to prove to me just how angry I had made him in the whole Dixie cup fiasco.

I am pretty damn sure that my child wanted me to lose my mind. It's really that simple.

And, for a moment in time, he succeeded.

Because right before we were set to leave the house so I could drop him off with the babysitter and head to work, I suddenly realized just how little I could handle from that point forward. I looked at my child, who didn't have a single tear coming from his eyes, but was sure as hell yelling and "crying" like it was the end of the world, and I sat down in front of him.

And I started crying. And yelling, "Why are you crying!? You're driving mommy absolutely crazy!!"

And of course my crying and yelling only increased his crying and yelling.

Suddenly there was not one, but two three-year-olds sitting on the living room floor, crying and yelling.

I had reached an all-time low in my personal parenting book. But at the time, I didn't care. I was just completely fed up.

As soon as I finally came to my senses, and realized how ridiculous I was acting, I immediately felt guilty. I didn't feel guilty for the fact that I was crying, but for the fact that I was yelling.

Suddenly all of the crap-tastic stunts he had pulled between the hours of 9am and 3pm didn't seem so bad, and the fact that I was yelling at him could only mean that I was the worst mother in the world, and I was for sure going to hell.

So, I stopped. And I picked Thad up. And I held him.

I didn't even care that we were already 45 minutes late - at that point, it was no longer about making other people happy, but about ensuring that my child knew and understood how much I loved him, how much I was sorry for having yelled at him like that, and how much I needed him to understand that when mommy tells him to do something - he needs to do it.

Then of course, to clearly kick me while I was down, Thad - through the sniffles and the hiccups that only come after a good, long cry - said, "Mommy? It makes me sad when you yell at me."

Ugh.

Parenting fail.

I really wish he had chosen to just take a dull knife from the kitchen and stab me with it over and over - I am certain that it would have hurt less.

So there was more apologizing, and more cuddling.

And then there was, "Mommy? Can I have some gum?"

And it was like the world was whole again.

And everything went back to normal.

And I am happy to say that today, I am feeling a lot less like a crazy person. And I can assure you that today will involve me spoiling my child in some unnecessary way out of total mommy-guilt.

But oh well. He's worth it.