I shouted at Alby the other day. Properly shouted. I’ve tried to wipe it as best as I can from
my memory but essentially I was trying to cook dinner, I’d put down a range of
saucepans and spoons for Alby to play with but on this particular day it wasn’t
enough. He forced his way into the
cupboard just beside where I was working and pulled out two saucepans which
fell straight onto my foot. For just a
split second I forgot that he wasn’t a dog, that with babies you aren’t
supposed to give a loud pitch noise of pain, clear instruction and then turn
your back. I gave an involuntary “ow”,
then reinforced it and then knelt down to Alby’s eye level, grabbed his arm and
said in a voice so louder I can’t pretend it was just projecting “No Alby, you
do not do that”.
And then I remembered he is a baby. For all his walking and babbling and climbing
and giggling he is still a baby. He
doesn’t understand consequences. He
doesn’t understand right and wrong. And
my stomach turned, my soul plummeted and shrank as I filled with guilt.
Alby cried. I had to
take ten deep breaths and, thankfully, because my son is a much better person
than I am, we got over it.
I’m not naïve enough to think that I won’t ever shout at him
again. I know that I’m a highly fallible
individual and I will make mistakes in this testing role I play as mama to my
amazing little man. I hope that I will
have the courage and wisdom to learn from each episode and to grow as a parent
each time but oh my goodness whilst I would say I’ve had my fair share of guilt
in my lifetime, nothing prepared me for how horrible that was.
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