It was just another hectic morning, one of those days where getting my older kids ready for school felt like a race against the clock. Breakfasts needed to be prepared, homework checked, and lunches packed—all while dealing with that lingering jet lag from our recent trip abroad to visit family in Scotland. My husband was away for work, and his usual support was sorely missed. I had a multitude of excuses lined up in my mind.
My son, who had just turned 4, had been battling an ear infection. To top it off, the pharmacy had forgotten to add flavor to his antibiotic, making the task of getting him to take his medicine a true test of patience. After what felt like an eternity of bribes and pleas, he finally accepted the yogurt and strawberry mix. It was supposed to be his first day back at Pre-K after two weeks away.
As we headed to his room to get him dressed, I noticed the time ticking away. I had a conference call coming up in just 30 minutes. He had recently started wearing a uniform to school, and this morning, it was clear that the novelty had worn off. I laid out his shirt, only to be met with immediate resistance. “I no want to wear this shirt, Mama,” he declared, his tiny fists clenched. I took a deep breath and tried to remain calm, explaining that all the kids had to wear the same shirt, a rule set by the teacher. But logic didn’t matter in that moment; tears began to flow as he thrashed and turned away every time I approached him with the shirt.
I found myself sitting on the floor, the minutes slipping away. With only moments left to get him ready and out the door, I attempted to hold him down and get the shirt over his head. In a sudden movement, he arched back, and his head struck my nose. In that instant of pain and shock, I made a terrible decision—I smacked him right in the middle of his small back. The sound echoed, and his wide brown eyes locked onto mine as he began to cry. I was left in a state of disbelief, feeling a mix of shock and shame.
I finally managed to get the shirt on him and rushed him to the car, his sobs still fresh in the air. During the short drive to school, I desperately tried to justify my actions. “I’m sorry, buddy, but Mommy is running late for work. If I don’t go, I’ll get in trouble. Do you want Mommy to be in trouble?” Not only had I broken his trust, but I was now implying that it was somehow his fault.
By the time we arrived at school, his tears had subsided. We walked hand-in-hand to his classroom, and as we turned the corner, I felt a surge of guilt wash over me. What had I done?
As soon as I reached my car, the floodgates opened, and I broke down. What kind of person had I become? Would he ever see me the same way again? Should I skip work and devote the day to making amends? But I couldn’t—what I had done was unforgivable. I was supposed to be his protector, and I had violated that sacred role.
When my husband called to check in, I couldn’t bring myself to share what had happened. I was too ashamed. What kind of mother strikes her child? I’m not a violent person; this wasn’t how a mother should act.
Later that day, when I picked him up from school, he was on the playground, joyfully sliding down a plastic slide. He spotted me and ran straight into my arms. In that moment, I felt both elation and crushing guilt, knowing that no amount of reasoning could explain my earlier actions.
Parenting is a journey filled with ups and downs, and it’s impossible to navigate without occasionally losing your temper. I have three children, and while there have been countless challenging moments, I had never reacted this way before. On that day, at that moment, I made the wrong choice—one that I will carry with me forever.
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Summary
This article reflects on a mother’s moment of weakness when she lost her temper and struck her child during a chaotic morning. The author shares her feelings of guilt and remorse, recognizing the challenges of parenting and the importance of maintaining trust with her children.
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