My son was sitting criss-cross wedged into a small space between the wall and the bookshelf, hands over his ears, screaming at the top of his lungs, “You are a horrible mother!” This had been a 45-minute meltdown that included throwing things across the room, punching and kicking me, and even a swipe at our poor dog. My body was shaking as I tried a breathing exercise to calm myself.
Although we had been here before, it was still traumatic — for all of us. I’m not going to lie, even though I understood why he was saying these things to me, it still hurt. I spent the rest of the evening fighting back tears.