My first (you read that correctly) surgery in early December was not only the first in the process of treating my obesity, it was also my first ever. As I indicated in previous posts, fears around anesthesia, not waking up, losing control, etc., formed the basis for the majority of the anxiety I felt heading into the surgery theater the first time. In the back of my mind, I couldn't shake the thought that the (albeit brave) decision of going through with my plan might also be my last! I usually do my best to avoid wearing my anxiety on my sleeve at home - Paige and I both feed off each other and the picture ends up not being pretty. I'm sure the weeks leading up to December 1 were about as stressful for her as they were for me.
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Yesterday I yelled at my four-year-old. Screamed really. With gusto.
It wasn't a fair fight.
The details of how the scenario came about are insignificant compared with the broader phenomenon. (That is to say, I blew up at him because of a slinky.)
When my platform of politeness, self-control, dignity, and maturity shuddered a touch, it gave way to anger -- under which was fear of loss, probably under which was actual unrelated loss. I could see the same anger, fear, and sadness in my sons eyes even as the scene unfolded. Looking back on it later, I felt as though I had kicked a kitten.
Perhaps there are parents who do not identify with losing their cool with their kids. Perhaps there are some who hold it together 99.9% of the time (or who at least appear to hold it together). Yet I'm sure we all move through the parenting years with different styles. I talked with a f...
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