It Won't Happen Again

You said that I needed to be strong. I said I’d try. “No, I don’t want to hear about how hard you tried,” you replied. “You will be strong. Do it for me.”
“Okay,” I conceded. “I will be strong.”
These past two years have been all about me, growing in strength. This morning I took the coward’s way, acting out in frustration, throwing one of my hissy fits again because I felt helpless. Too many demands from others. Too many distractions. Unable to move forward at all. And I snapped. I flipped, as you’d say.
I hadn’t done that in quite awhile. It didn’t feel good. It brought only shame and more frustration. But this time it brought hurt too. Not to me, but to my daughter. At seven years old, she still thinks I’m great. The tears in her eyes spoke her disappointment in seeing me mad at her baby brother. I couldn’t look her in the eye, so I sent her to her room.
I collected myself and picked up the baby and apologized, nursing him, soothing him to sleep. I had put him in the crib because I didn’t know what else to do. He kept fussing while I tried to teach. His preschool sister was no help at all and I just felt incapable of handling the tasks at hand. I hate feeling that way.
My daughter came down when she realized I was calm again. I asked her to pray for me, though I’m not sure if a parent is right to ask that of a child. I apologized to her for acting out in anger. And for just a moment, I thought of trying to explain it all, the frustration of parenting and how it’s hard but I try. Then I thought of your words when I said, “I do the best I can.” You asked, “How would you feel if your father said that?”
So I skipped the explanation and the attempt to have her see me as a woman who often feels as if she’s falling to pieces. “It won’t happen again,” I said. “I promise.”