Tonight, I yelled at my son until my throat was sore.
He’s not even three. A tiny little thing. And he bore the full brunt of my frustration.
It was all about bedtime. It always is.
He’s going through a phase when he just refuses to go to bed. We do all the usual things, bath, books, milk, cuddles, but every time we put him in his bed, he just gets right out again. Singing, smiling dancing. Jumping, throwing, running. Very, very far from sleeping.
This is cute, the first three times.
“Come on, monster. Back to bed…” and you gather him up, in his soft, flannelly winter pyjamas and smell his sweaty little curls and kiss him on the head, and deliver him back to his pillow.”Good night, baby boy. Love you.”
But then he does it again. And again. And again.
Threats don’t work. Consequences don’t work. He’s woken up his sister now, with his lively yelps (or maybe that was you, with your rising voice?) and she’s complaining that she’s tired, that he’s keeping her awake. Can’t you do something about it?
Before you know it, it’s been an hour, it’s getting late, you haven’t eaten, you need to do some work, you need to talk to your partner about your day. And he WON’T GO TO BED.
You think he’s finally gone down, and then he pops up at the living room door, dancing a happy jig, smiling like there’s nothing wrong.