I Hate Mommy

Last night, after the fifth time of trying to put them to bed, both of my kids snuck (sneaked?) downstairs. I had had enough. My kids are very familiar with my "I'm getting very angry voice" and were quick to scurry up the stairs.

"But I want my stuffed animals!" my daughter protested all the while.

I went in search of the said stuffed animals and carried them up to her room. I found her sitting in bed, real tears pouring from her eyes. "I hate Mommy," she sobbed, unaware that I had entered her room.

She's only four, and she doesn't like to be yelled at for anything, so I know I shouldn't take her words personally ... but I do. She has always been a Daddy's girl. He's the "good cop." He rarely yells. He lets them have fun. He breaks all of Mommy's rules. I'm the "bad cop." I yell all the time. I give them chores  (pick up your toys, make your bed, clear the table). I make the rules.

Sigh. I know I yell too much. When I was diagnosed with LERD (the silent acid reflux disease) earlier this year, my ENT told me I had singer's nodules on my vocal cords. He said he only ever sees them on (1) people who sing a lot; (2) cheerleaders; and (3) mothers of young children.


I have tried to be better about raising my voice. Obviously, I am failing. Otherwise, I wouldn't have a four-year-old who hates me. Sigh.