This morning, big guy, you had a huge tantrum. A massive, over-the-top tantrum for what had happened. I know you’re a different kind of kid, but sometimes I forget that. Or rather, I’d like to forget it.
So I treat you the way I would treat any other kid, but the tantrum just gets worse. And this morning, Mom was tired. She hadn’t slept well. Mom’s stressed out, too. She’s thinking about a million things all the time. She’s got a million things to take care of. And that’s exactly when your tantrums are the worst. You shouldn’t have to deal with the pressure I’m under.
This morning, I said mean things to you. Words I didn’t mean. When you say mean things to me, it doesn’t bother me, because I know it’s just because you’re angry. But my own words—they hurt you. They chip away at your self-esteem. They hurt you, and that’s so not what I wanted. I just wanted it to stop. When you’re ten years old, throwing a tantrum while screaming and hitting your brother is unacceptable, so I yelled at you. Does that make sense? Not at all! I’m so sorry, big guy.
Even adults forget sometimes. This morning, I forgot that you’re different, and I’m so hard on myself for it. You know why? Because your mom is supposed to protect you. You should feel safe from everything when you see me. You should feel like the strongest, smartest, most interesting, and most handsome person in my arms. But this morning, I crushed you with my words. I destroyed you. I hurt you.
I’m so, so sorry. I should never have hurt you. Never! I often accuse you of not using your tricks to calm down. Well, this time, I’m the one who didn’t use any tricks.
I love you, my big guy. More than you can imagine. I promise I’ll use my tricks next time. Most of all, I’ll try never to forget who you are.