It’s raining which kind of fits my mood these past weeks.
The girl is tough on us. She has good moments, we have moments of fun and love, but we have many, many more moments of anger, tears, shouting and crying. I wonder whether I should write about it, but I can’t. When I try, I feel guilty. I feel as if I am writing about something that’s not mine to write about. Her anger, her confusion, her terrible threes are hers, not mine. But I am not entirely telling the truth. Because yes, those emotions and those fights are hers, but so are the happy moments I am willing to share.
Not writing is also about feeling vulnerable. We fight, we fight a lot. And at night when the lights are out, I wonder whether I could have done something differently, whether I am the best mother I can be. I am supposed to be the adult, I am supposed to be the one who knows what to do, but I don’t. I lose my temper, I shout, I close the door. Not all the time, but more often than I like. And I am embarrassed that I react like that.
I know that everything is going to be okay. I know that she loves me and that I love her – not least because I tell her every second in an attempt to apologise for my anger from some point earlier on. But I wish I knew when it would be better. I wish I could tell myself to just endure it until September or something, but I can’t. All I can do is wait. And while I promise to write as soon as I feel like it, I also apologise for being an oyster and keeping shut on this one.
I am a good swimmer, but these waters I have no clue how to swim in.