I hate my son.

I loathe him.

I despise him.

I fantasize about the sweet taste of freedom should he ever decide to run away from home.

These are not the thoughts of the kind, nurturing, loving woman I know myself to be. They are those of the exhausted, desperate, hopeless shell of the mother I have become.

It is often difficult to see my way through the murky waters of motherhood guilt. The rational part of my brain recognizes that this poor child has been through the ringer in his short little life of 10 years. I should cut him some slack. Hell, we should ALL cut him some slack. His daddy died when he was an infant, his beloved aunt died when he was in second grade, and, seemingly overnight,  he went from being the very center of his grieving mother’s attention to being one of a family of five. He was moved from one state to another and removed from the community, school, swim team, and neighborhood he called home. He has been diagnosed repeatedly with ADHD, OCD, ODD. No wonder he is so angry, so defiant, and so manipulative.

Yet I am largely a practical woman. We all have our crosses to bear.  Allowing my son to torment our family, to behave like a tyrant, to manipulate and cajole the rest of us is clearly not the answer. Somehow I need to help direct him to use his pain as a source of strength; but how? He works with a board certified pediatric psychiatrist and an equally qualified child therapist. His home life is full of love, consistency, reasonable expectations, and support. My husband and I read parenting books and articles and even listen to CDs in the car, all in a vain attempt to bring peace into our home. I make every attempt NOT to enable his behavior because, in the end, I feel such pity for him.

I hate myself.

I loathe myself.

I despise myself.

I fantasize about the sweet taste of freedom should I ever decide to run away from home.

Someone once said this to me about parenthood: “We should neither take too much credit nor too much blame for the way our children turn out.” I find this advice difficult to follow. How could this NOT be all my fault? I coddled him. I was overprotective and way more democratic than need be. I explained, justified, and defended to him every decision I ever made. I wanted him to understand, to see the logic. I, myself, have a strong internal need to have a sense of control over my world, so why should I deny that to him, my boy who is Just. Like. Me.?

I love my son.

I adore my son.

He fills my heart.

We spend long periods of time together laughing, joking, dancing, playing. I feel free when we are together. Together we are whole. Complete. There were many years when it was just him and me against the world. While I love my other two children just as much, I will never be able to replicate with them the closeness I experienced with my first. We are forever bonded. He owns a special place in my heart to which only he will ever have access.

How do I reconcile the fact that I both hate and love my son? What kind of mother daydreams about running away to the sandy shores of the Mediterranean Sea after gifting him to his grandparents?  How dare I allow myself to wallow in self-pity when I have friends who are spending tens of thousands of dollars just to have a chance at children of their own? Why can’t I subscribe to the sunshine, rainbows, and lollipops version of motherhood sold to me on television and in glossy magazines?

I finally broke down and called my mother. I had to ask.

“Mom, was there ever a time when you hated me? Like, truly, genuinely, honestly hated me and wished you could send me away?”

She laughed.

“Of course, Honey. But there was never a single moment that I didn’t love you. I loved you the whole time I hated you. Don’t forget that you are only human, that you have limits, too. You are a wonderful mother and this is a normal part of the process. Keep fighting for him, keep advocating for him, but don’t forget to fight and advocate for yourself, too. His rights stop where yours begin.”

We had a really positive and productive family therapy session recently that gave me some glimmer of hope that I am not actually the worst mother in the world. (I may still be in contention for the second worst mother of all time, however). I am trying to accept my feelings even if they aren’t the ones I ever thought I would have. I am trying to be honest with myself and with others about how hard parenting can get…how confounding and confusing and isolating. I hold onto that hope, because sometimes it’s all I have left.

I had a dream last night that my son was grown and had a family of his own. He called me one day and asked, “Mom, was there ever a time when you hated me?” I laughed, and knew just what to say.

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About the Author

Larissa Peluso-Fleming

Larissa is a mama of three terrific kiddos and a happily married gal. She's a mathematics specialist and has the distinct pleasure of spending her days sharing the love and magic of math with elementary-aged learners. She lives by the credo, "It is better to be an optimist and a fool than a pessimist and right."