This afternoon, I have irrevocably, irretrievably, lost my ever-loving mind.
It's been raining all day - a slanting, frigid rain that made our dash to the car a cross-country event. The boys are fidgety and fussy, both. No one slept well last night, courtesy of our newest nocturnal misadventure, the Toddler Nightmare.
And then, despite a trip to WalMart, where, for once, Matthew was allowed to play with the toys as long as he pleased, AND McDonald's french fries for lunch (how's that for a white-trash morning, eh?)....naptime became battle time.
Four times, I tried to put Matthew down. Four times he came bouncing up - the last time, with a decided smirk and an attitude. "Me want chocolate milk, NOW!"
And so...I lost it. Lost it.
Yelled at my beloved two-year old son. Took off my slipper and threw it across the room. Yelled some more and then dragged Matthew down the stairs to his room: Come Hell or high water, boy, you are going to have a nap!
But when I picked him up to toss him into his crib, I shoved my face into his to yell some more...and burst into tears. Crumbled to the floor, there amongst the dinky cars and discarded socks and wept.
Matthew? Crawled up underneath my arm, to gently place his tiny lips on mine:
"It's ok, Mummy. Don't cry, Mummy."
Shoved his soother in my mouth and then went to stand behind me, to "wrap me in hugs" the way I do when he's crying.
How is it that I, the mother, have learned the greatest lessons in love, forgiveness and patience from my son?
My son. My heart.