At some point this weekend, I felt like I was on one of those awful tabloid, sensationalist television programs. You know the ones that show the parent of the child who is utterly out of control? The child who you have to assume is being fed sugar and crap food by the bucket, watches too much bad television? The one who seems to have massive anger issues?

Except that I know my child isn’t being fed sugar and crap food by the bucket, doesn’t watch too much bad television and, as far as I’m aware, has not had anger issues to date.

It is Sunday night and I am broken. I am going to bed and it is 8:30pm. My preschooler has broken me. In every waking moment I love her with every fibre of my being. This weekend was no exception. But this weekend I didn’t like her behaviour for quite a significant number of hours.

She was that child from the awful television program. A number of times. I don’t know what prompted the first one. She is always tired on Saturdays but deals with our general Saturday routine, has a big sleep in the afternoon then we enjoy our movie night together and she sleeps in my bed. Not so this weekend. This weekend we’d barely parked at the market when she had a meltdown.

I won’t necessarily rehash each of the incidences, because it’s not her behaviour that I really want to discuss. It’s my reaction to it. For the most part, I think I have reacted really well. I got down to her level, I sat with her. I offered to hold her. I held her tight. I sang to her and held her like I did when she was a little bubba.

{On the ground in the middle of the markets and then in the gutter near the car.}

I asked her what was wrong. I gave her choices so she felt she had some control. I let her thrash it out at one point because she really didn’t want me to touch her. I sat close by and told her I was there.

And at one point, I lost it. Yep, totally lost it. And not at home in the privacy of my own home either, but just outside the gates of the market with people streaming by enjoying their sunny Spring morning. One guy walked passed holding the hand of a small child, a couple of years older than Love Bug. He walked passed a few minutes later and mouthed at me are you okay? which I thought was lovely, if a little brave – after all, I was at this point yelling at my small child {who was laying on the footpath whipping around so furiously that she had scratched both her ankle and knee and was bleeding from both} that I couldn’t help her if she couldn’t help me understand what was wrong.

It was a low point. Obviously.

I have read a lot about kids and emotions and trying to help them through. I have spoken to people. Other parents. Professional people.

It is the inability to control the situation in any way, shape or form that really stresses me out. My inability to calm her immediately. My inability to stop it from happening a second, third or fourth time in one weekend.

My fear and feeling of utter failure as a parent.

My guilt at feeling like I’d like a break from motherhood. Knowing that she wouldn’t behave like that for anyone else and that kids act out with their parents because that’s where they feel safest to act out.

My guilt that the dogs are scared when it’s madness. Their body language breaks my heart too. They want to love and protect both of us but they don’t know what to do.

I feel utterly broken. If I don’t write for a while, maybe it will be because they have taken me to the farm.

Then I feel really guilty thinking I’d probably like it at the farm – someone else would cook and clean, I could rest, read books under a tree and not have to stress about every single little thing. They probably don’t let you drink Pinot at the farm though.

Broken.

Mumma is broken.