10:15 p.m. on Monday night. It feels like Friday already.
My 11-year-old, a writer who gets her “inspiration” around 9:00 p.m. every evening (which feels like the middle of the night as I’ve been up since 5:30 a.m.) was chattering in bed. Suddenly, happy moments from the day turned to a rant that I hadn’t given her enough time to write after I had promised to.
From the darkness my daughter whined, voice strained and tired:
“You said you would give me time after and you didn’t.”
My cortisol shot through my veins. My heart dropped to my feet. I could feel my defensive, angry Mama surging. My mind spun and the thoughts whirred:
“It is never enough for you, Natasha. You are never satisfied. How have I raised a child with no gratitude who is always pushing for more? I cannot take this. I have no more energy. I guess I’m the worst Mom. I am going to go insane.”
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