It was an ordinary morning filled with the usual hustle of preparing my older children for school. Breakfasts needed cooking, homework required finishing, and lunches had to be packed. I recall feeling particularly drained and irritable, having just returned from a family trip to Scotland. My husband was away for work, leaving me to manage everything alone. I had a plethora of justifications for my state.
My youngest son, who had recently turned 4, was recovering from an ear infection. The pharmacy had neglected to add flavor to his medication, making it a struggle to get him to take his antibiotic. After an hour of coaxing, he finally consumed the strawberry and yogurt mixture. It was his first day back at Pre-K after two weeks of absence.
As we headed to his room to get dressed, I realized that the novelty of his school uniform had worn off. I laid out his shirt, only to be met with immediate resistance. “I don’t want to wear this shirt, Mommy,” he shouted, his fists clenched. I took a deep breath and tried to remain calm, explaining that all the kids in his class needed to wear the same uniform, attributing it to the teacher’s rules. The tears began, and no amount of reasoning seemed effective. Each time I approached him to help him get dressed, he would thrash and kick.
I sat on the floor, feeling time slip away. With only minutes left to get him dressed and out the door before my conference call, I resorted to holding him between my legs to pull the shirt over his head. In a moment of unexpected resistance, he flung his head back, and it collided with my nose. In a surge of frustration and pain, I struck him firmly on his small back. The sound echoed painfully. His wide eyes met mine, and he erupted into tears. I sat there, stunned—partly shocked and partly filled with guilt.
I managed to finish getting the shirt on him and carried him, still crying, to the car. During the short ride to school, I attempted to justify my actions. “I’m sorry, but Mommy is late for work. If I don’t go, I could get in trouble. Do you want Mommy to be in trouble?” In retrospect, I was not only betraying his trust but also implying that the situation was somehow his fault.
By the time we reached school, his tears had subsided, and we walked silently to his classroom. As we turned the corner, his small fingers intertwined with mine, and I felt a wave of regret crash over me. What had I done?
Once back in my car, I broke down, overwhelmed with emotions. What kind of person had I become? Would he ever see me the same way again? Should I skip work to spend the day making amends? The thought of failing in my role as his protector haunted me. The damage was done.
When my husband called to check in, I couldn’t bring myself to share what had happened. The shame was too great. What kind of mother slaps her child? It was a moment that felt irreparable. I don’t consider myself a violent person; this wasn’t how a mother was supposed to act.
Later that day, I picked him up from school. He was joyfully playing on the playground when he spotted me and ran towards me, leaping into my arms. I felt a mix of elation and crushing guilt. There was no way to rationalize what had occurred.
I understand that losing your temper is part of parenting; however, it is a choice I wish I had handled differently. I have faced numerous challenging situations with my three children and never resorted to physical discipline before. On that day, in that moment, I made a decision I will always regret.
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