“That makes Mommy sad when you throw food on the floor.”
I keep seeing Genny strapped into her highchair, her chin falling down toward her chest as she repeatedly says, “blah, blah, blah”. Smushed orange carrots and sweet potatoes stain the white wall. Blueberry mush and biscuit crumbs slobbered up with some milk all tangle together on her tray as she slides and sloshes her fingers through the mess. Almost as an afterthought, she reaches her hand up to her hair and gives it a twirl, eyeing me to see my reaction.
“That makes Mommy mad. I don’t like that.”
Yet I offer her more foods in different varieties because she’s not been eating a lot lately. I feel myself losing it, food bit by food bit. My anger is slipping out at her. I am getting frustrated with a fourteen-month old.
Thank goodness that when Nick comes home he comes baring my antidepressant prescription from Caremark. It’s been two days since I ran out. My mind must have been going through some cold turkey type withdrawal.
I’ve calmed down a bit, but of course, the baby is sleeping. I get annoyed with myself for not handling my emotions better. I get envious of all the other patient moms I see on the sidewalks with two or even three kids in tow who seem relaxed and fine. Meanwhile, my one little girly girl of a child pushes me to using profanities just because she refuses to eat.