Wriiten By RACHEL GARLINGHOUSE
A year ago, I found myself utterly exhausted.
My son, who was old enough to be well beyond tantrums, was still throwing epic fits. Constantly.
I’d frequently have to carry him, football-style, under my arm and out the door, his arms and legs flailing behind him. I’d up and left stores, playdates, and restaurants more times than I could even count — all while sweating, red-faced, and frustrated, feeling the eyes of other parents burning into my back.
Each time, my older two children would follow, protesting loudly: “Mommy, why do we have to leave? We just got here?”
Back in the safety of the car, I would flip down the DVD player screen, where the screams would finally give way to silence. I’d take a sip of my water bottle, blast the air conditioning, and sigh. What was I doing wrong? This wasn’t my first parenting rodeo. After all, I have three kids and have worked as a nanny, day care worker, camp teacher, and children’s ministry leader.
I know this gig; I have experience.
Whenever I opened up about things to relatives or friends, they would more or less react the same way — with simple laugh or a shrug. “Boys will be boys,” they’d say flippantly.