"Ethan, it's time to go potty."
"Come one, let's go potty."
We go into the bathroom, Ethan stands in front of the toilet. "Ethan, pull your pants down and go pee."
"Noooo! They're not pants! They're shorts!"
"Okay. Pull your shorts down." He does, he pees, he puts the seat down. All is well. I am a good mom, I didn't lose it with him, he did what I asked.
"Ethan, pull your shorts up."
"Nooooo! It's not shorts! It's a Pull-Up!" I roll my eyes. He finally pulls them up, steps on the stool to wash his hands. Only, he doesn't wash his hands. He plays in the water, refuses to get soap. Yelling ensues. Smacks on the hiney. Threats of a time-out. 10 minutes later we leave the bathroom, he's crying, my blood pressure is somewhere around 200/180. This is what I'm thinking: I hate my life, I'm the worst mother ever, I shouldn't yell at him, Oh, God, forgive me for sometimes not liking my child, I'm a horrible mother, etc., etc., etc.
Cut to 4 hours later. Both boys have napped. Ethan and I have "played Play-Doh" in the kitchen together for 30 minutes. We go to Walgreens to pick up aforementioned medication. We have to sit in line for a while, but that's okay because the boys are in the backseat, cracking each other up. This is what I'm thinking: You know, I am so blessed. My children are healthy, happy, cute, and fun. My husband is a good man. We have a house, 2 cars, plenty of food, a great church. I am livin' the life!
Give me 5 more minutes in line at Walgreens, though, and I'm inconsolable.
So, yeah, my cover is blown. I'm emotional. There. I said it. I may not cry or love shopping, but I can be reduced to screaming or elation by 32 pounds of preschooler.