I am not a saint

I ran.

I didn't mean to, I try very hard to be calm and patient, but sometimes I don't succeed.

The parents of Angel's friends apparently describe me as a saint.

Please read this very carefully: I. Am. Not. A. Saint.

If you've known me for more than five years you're probably laughing at the very idea!  

I do my best, and I am lucky to have a positive outlook on life.  Most of the time.

But sometimes I do get down and sometimes I do feel overwhelmed.

Swearing helps, especially when Smiley has an accident in the middle of a TV show that I've been waiting to watch all week.  Tiring and annoying, but I can deal with it.   

But my son's behaviour can really mess with my head.  It's not his fault, it's mine, I'm an adult and should be able to deal with it, but some things trigger memories that overload my coping skills.  

This all happened on a Sunday, and many of our worst days are Sundays.  Perhaps my expectations are too high?  Sunday is supposed to be the perfect family day, with lie-ins and lunch around the table, and car-washing and family outings.  A day of fun and leisure.

It's a day we mostly spend on our own, and it's usually a fail day.  From the disappointment of the lie-in that didn't happen to the late lunch to the trip that no-one wants, it rarely lives up to expectations.

Last Sunday I snapped.

I slammed the bowl into the sink, and I ran.

I ran out of the house, down the road, round the corner and I didn't stop until I could run no more.

I had no keys and no phone. 

My flight response had kicked in.

My Mummy brain knew that my 19 year old was in the house so that the kids would be safe.

But I had to escape.  For a few minutes anyway.  And for a few minutes I didn't want to go back.

But I did.