I’m sorry

I’m sorry my child won’t give you a turn. Taking turns is hard to learn. When you’re done, please give your friend a turn.

I’m sorry my child is screaming and hitting the ground. You’re feeling frustrated. It’s good to understand what you’re feeling.

I’m sorry my child is running up to you and hitting you with a plastic shovel. Please give me the shovel if you won’t play nicely with it. Hitting people is not playing nicely.

I’m sorry my child is kicking sand at you. Stop kicking the sand. That’s not how we play with sand, and it’s not how we play with our friends.

I’m sorry my child is grabbing the toy you’re playing with and swinging you around like a rag doll because you won’t let go.

I’m sorry my child is actually melting sand into glass with the heat of his anger.

I’m sorry my child has invented six new wrestling moves this morning and decided to demonstrate them on you. And on me.

I’m sorry my child has decided that every toy in the park is his. HIS. And every slide. And every rock. And your left thumb.

I’m sorry my child has decided that he is a terrifying combination of an angry velociraptor and a steamroller. At least he can’t actually fly. I’m sorry my child can now fly.

Please use your words.

I’m sorry my child is using those words. He doesn’t actually mean it. He’s just hungry. And tired. And 2.

He’s just 2.

He’s just 2.

He’s so very 2.

I’m sorry that 2 is so hard. This too shall pass.

I’m sorry that this too shall pass. Because I treasure every fully felt and thoroughly embodied moment of it.