When I first went back to work after Maya was born, there was a day when I was relieved to have survived my day there with two children. I started loading up the car with our belongings. When I returned to the house to get the kids, I found Sam in the bathroom. He was washing his socks in the toilet. I completely lost it. I'm not certain that I came to work the next day--I think this was the time my dad worried if I'd ever come back!
This morning I went to see what the ruckus in the bathroom was. The children were supposed to be brushing their teeth. I enter to see Sam using the handle of his toothbrush to get something out of the toilet bowl. It was a hairbrush. I completely lost it. I mean, all I could think of was WHAT THE F*CK! Fortunately I used more developmentally appropriate words. But I yelled, I tried to let the rage out. I got them to school just as the bell was ringing, and then immediately called Erik to vent. Eventually my heart stopped pounding.
I was actually on my way to my psychiatrist, for a med check appointment. That could be a whole post in and of itself, but I do want to say that she reminded me to practice saying "It doesn't matter." True, children will put their hands in the toilet and the world won't end. I am having a hard time grasping why an 8.5 year old would put something in the toilet and then try to use his toothbrush to fish it out. I'm trying though, I'm trying.
My new mantra: It doesn't matter.