1/01/2018

being mum|the bowling meltdown

So, here's the stupidest thing -- yesterday I had a complete and utter meltdown. At bowling. With my family. About a photo. 

I can tend to hold on to some childhood things more than others. And the things that always get to me are ludicrous. Like the times where I was forced into taking photos and smiling and punished when I didn't. So... like with all my parenting I take the road my parents didn't take. Also known as the good road. Except, sometimes, I let all my fears about Bailey ever feeling like I did get to me. And yesterday they got to me which is why I burst into tears in a bowling alley and shuffled in my bowling shoes to the bathroom to cry heavily on a toilet.

True story.

I don't ever pretend to be a perfect parent but I do believe that I'm a good one. I'm also an over thinker. So when my child refuses to smile for a family photo I freak out. But it's not just about the smile because any, and all, crazy faces are fine too. It's mostly the deadpan, painful, look that gets to me. And it does. It just hurts me. And so I cry and then she cries. And I legitimately sat in a chair with my arms crossed refusing to bowl until I realised I could take my frustrations out on the ball. So then I did that.

I don't quite know why Bailey not wanting to take a photo upsets me so much. It's not like she never takes photos with me but... I get scared. I worry she doesn't love me. I fear she's living a crappy life with me around. So I cry and I pout and I complain which is terribly mature of me and totally makes me a great parent. And it's strange because I'm not a crier and I'm certainly not a public crier. So, crying at bloody bowling seems to be the most ridiculous thing I've done {except for that time I ordered a brownie sundae with no ice cream and couldn't figure out why the server was looking at me weird}.

Of course, as B. and I do, we made up, hugged, apologised and came to a solution to suit the both of us -- one photo and she gets to pick the silly face we make. She promises to not look constipated and/or on the verge of murdering me in my sleep and I promise to not be such a stupid idiot. And then, maybe, we blamed the whole thing on the Husband and finished the remaining eight rounds as if a thirty year old woman hadn't just had a fucking meltdown in bowling shoes. 

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