Dear Mom, I get why you sat on me

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Dear Mom,

I get why you had to sit on me when I was four. I get that you were frazzled, felt like you were at your wit’s end and sought a counselor’s advice for how to deal with me. I get that I was challenging, I get that I was bold. I get that I might have given you gray hairs, bags under your eyes and may have inspired some violent thoughts that involved me and well, I won’t finish that thought.

But I get it. Okay? I call Uncle! You were right, you were right, you were right. You were right to sit on me, yell at me, lose your temper with me, temporarily hate me, ground me, time out me, put me in my room for all eternity and yes—- even sit on me.

Because if I was 55% like the little boy that lives with me that’s almost four, then I deserved it.

This morning I arrived to work not with my normal pluck and zest for the school day to begin. No, not really at all like that. Like I had been dropkicked a little, maybe dragged behind a truck for a few blocks, and like I had been subject, unwillingly, to torture by a tenacious toddler. By a toddler who had been overtaken by a mix of hormones, adrenaline and lunacy. By a toddler that very well may have been like me the day (days, was it days?) that you sat on me.

You sat on me because I argued every point until you were practically speechless. You sat on me because you couldn’t come up with another reason why I can’t go to school with my pajamas. You sat on me because you could think of no other way to end the conversation. You say on me because you had. Nothing. Left. To give.

And I get it. I get it like I get why you worried about me when I went to kindergarten, my first sleepover and abroad to London for a semester. I get it like I get why you said, “you will never love anything like you love that baby.” I get it like I get why you cried when you dropped me off at college.

I get it because I am raising a little red headed boy-version of the Bridgette you raised.

And it takes everything I have somedays. Somedays I look at him and can’t believe I made him myself (well, not really) and somedays, I just sit. On him.

Thanks for sitting on me, loving on me and doting on me for thirty three years and counting.

Because without your strength in doing that, I would have no strength to do the yelling, the disciplining, the hugging and the loving that I am doing with him as of late. So, thank you.

Love,
Your “Little” Girl

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