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It’s been one of those mornings.

One of those mornings where I would rather live in a mosquito-invested nudist colony than suffer through one more minute with my four dependents.

That’s a horrible thing to admit.

And I feel guilty just thinking it, let alone writing it down.

Now that they are all napping peacefully, the guilt is really building, bubbling over into a horrendous emotional concoction of personal resentment and failure. This manifests itself in the form of a good ugly cry. And a dramatic phone call to James, demanding that he come home from the office earlier than we’d planned. (We’re easing him back into his part time schedule, and even 20 hours away each week is proving a challenge).

And then some covered in lies blogging.

Thanks for tuning in and bearing with me.

My mother always said that the early years of parenting are exhausting physically, but relatively mindless. As the years pass by, however, the exhaustion flips, and you find yourself mentally worn out, but with less of a physical burden to bear.

Unfortunately, I’m currently living in both stages. Like a parenting pergatory.

Courtland is in the heart of the physically exhausting stage. My body is her only source of nutrition. She cannot yet self-sooth, so my arms serve that purpose. She is not capable of sleeping through the night or entertaining herself. Her only form of communication is through crying, and oh what a cry it is. Equivalent to the sound of a broom on a tennis court: Grating, mind-numbing, not-to-be-ignored, must-be-stopped-before-I-remove-my-ear-drums-out-with-an-icecream-scoop kind of awful. All these things pose overwhelming, albeit mindless, physical demands.

Meanwhile Addison is moving out of the physically demanding stage and into the mentally challenging one. Just the other day, as I held her in my arms and she thrashed and kicked and screamed in the heart of a temper tantrum, I thought, “I have no idea what the fuck I am doing. Shit.”

She challenges me constantly. I say, “Don’t touch that” and her hand immediately reaches out and taps the forbidden item. I tell her not to throw things in the house, and she hurls an object at my head. I put her in time out and she screams bloody murder, shrieking statements like, “YOU’RE NOT VERY NICE!” And I can assume that these insults will only intensify as her vocabulary expands.

Since, arguably, I can reason with her through the English language, I find myself getting angry, wanting to yell and scream right back at her. I know how stupid and inappropriate that response is. But it doesn’t mean that in the heart of one of her fits I don’t loose my cool every now and again. We have entered a new stage of our relationship, and it’s complicated and confusing and heartbreaking and amazing, all at the same time.

Today I put her down for a nap and went to nurse Kaki. A lawn mower started up outside and Sunny came running into the room claiming she was scared, absolutely hysterical. I found myself coldly demanding that she go back to her bed. She was fine. Get over it. I just did not have the energy to deal with her.

Then she came out of her room because she’d pooped her diaper. I changed her and asked if she was done pooping or wanted to try using the potty. She said she was done, so I put her back in bed. Not 30 seconds later she appeared with another poopy diaper.

You can imagine that I was less-than-kind in how I handled this interaction. I know I’m not supposed to get angry about potty training. I know that scolding her won’t work. And yet I found myself telling her that I was mad. And disappointed. And very frustrated with her for being a bad girl. I changed her diaper, again, and put her back in bed, meanwhile Courtland shrieking her face off and the two dogs whining outside to have me come and throw the tennis ball for them. All audible examples of my failings as a mother at that very moment.

As I lay Addison down, she looked up at me with a sad, pouting face and said, “I’m really sorry, Mommy. I’ll be a good girl.”

And then I lost it. I sobbed big heavy ugly sobs right into her chest. The guilt for having been so frustrated with her, the resentment at myself for not knowing how to better handle these situations, the anger for not being able to control my own temper, and the disappointment that I ever let myself feel bitter toward my children, they all boiled over.

I don’t want to be an angry mother.

Everyday I am learning. Learning how to be a mother to a 28 month old and a 7 week old. Learning how to embrace this identity in all of its complicated and ever-changing forms.

Every single day is slightly different. Filled with new joys and challenges. Some days I manage the new tests and hurdles with gold stars and blue ribbons. Others, I wind up flat on my face, knees bloodied with gravel and angry red frowny faces to show for it.

What I’m saying is, I’m a work in progress. We all are, I suppose. And that’s okay, as long as we allow ourselves to learn from it. And to forgive ourselves. Because there is always an opportunity to grow and do better the next time.

Here’s hoping for that gold star. Because just as Sunny now asks to do everything “by her big girl self,” I too am being pushed to do things by my big girl self. And it’s not as easy as it looks.