Today My Child Hates Me

My son hates me. I know he does. There is no other explanation for it.

I call my son’s name. He ignores me, wrapped up in the world of his own imagining (I assume). I call it again. Over and over again. He continues to ignore me. I walk over to him. I tell him to come to me. He turns away and wonders to the other side of the room. I am dejected.

My son hates me. I know he does. There is no other explanation for it.

My son has hurt himself. He is crying. Mummy’s hugs and kisses surely make it better. Don’t they always? They are magical. I attempt to comfort him. He continues to cry. Harder. He struggles. He pushes me away. I attempt to stroke his head and face, cooing that Mummy’s here and it’s alright. He throws himself to the ground, crying harder still. I am saddened.

I remember when he was a newborn. He suffered from Colic. He would scream for hours. Why did my hugs and touch never work? I am a bad mother.

My son hates me. I know he does. There is no other explanation for it.

 I accidentally read an article involving the death of a 20 day old boy at the hands of his own father. There isn’t enough evidence to charge him with the death. He only receives 2 and a half years for assault on the infant. He’s already out of jail. He looks like he doesn’t care, and would do it again. I am angry and upset. I want to hug my son. I need to hug my son. I have to tell him I love him. He is quietly playing again, engrossed in his books and toys, whatever it is that has caught his attention. I attempt to embrace him. He pushes me away. He’s not interested in physical contact today. I am heart broken.

My son hates me. I know he does. There is no other explanation for it. 

My son a grizzly and moody. He is clingy and begging to be picked up. I do as he asks, but he wiggles and wriggles and pushes at my chest. He doesn’t want to be in my arms. I put him down. He cries harder. I attempt to distract him with toys, or a book, or the TV. He still cries. I don’t know what he wants. I try to give him a snack or a drink. He throws them to the ground. I don’t know what he wants. I am exhausted.

My son hates me. I know he does. There is no other explanation for it.

My brother’s girlfriend is coming to look after my son today. When he sees her he is so happy. He is laughing and running around. He’s waving and going crazy. It’s adorable to watch. He never does that for me. He lets her put on his shoes, and hat, and wash his hair. It’s the end of the universe if I attempt to do any of these things. I ask him for “Cuddles for Mummy” as I’m going out. He runs to my brother’s girlfriend instead. She makes Mary Poppins look like an abusive child hater. I love her so much, not only for being a wonderful person, but because she is so good with my son. However, I am jealous.

My son hates me. I know he does. There is no other explanation for it.

I’m lucky enough that I don’t have to rely on child care, I pay my mum instead to take care of my son whilst I’m at work. I ask how her day was. She always replies that he was good. I ask, “Did he cry at all? Was he grumpy? Was he grizzly? Did he throw any tantrums?” Her answer is always no. No, he’s always so good and never gets upset. Apparently he saves these feelings up especially for me. I feel like I’m constantly heading off a meltdown. I am tired and annoyed.

My son is defiant. My son is strong willed. My son is argumentative. My son is self-sufficient. My son is impatient. My son is single minded. My son doesn’t need me. My son doesn’t love me. My son…my son…my son…

My son is climbing up onto the couch next to me. My son is snuggling into my side. My son is grabbing my arms and hugging them vehemently. My son is laughing and pointing and having a conversation with me, although I don’t know what he says. My son is nuzzling his head in my lap. My son is sitting up and kissing me. My son is waving to me when I say hello or goodbye. My son is making me read ALL the books to him. My son is sharing his toys with me to play with. My son is making imaginary cups of tea for me to drink. My son is beckoning to me to pretend to drive in a car next to him. My son is giving me his percussion instruments to play with him. My son is pointing to me when my husband asks him “Where’s Mummy?”

Of course I’m a good mum. Of course I’m being ridiculous. Of course I’m exaggerating. Of course my son loves me. Some days are harder than others to remind myself of this fact. But I know at the end of the day, when I tuck him up in bed he feels that he is loved back. 

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