I failed.

Mornings are a problem with Kevin. It's always been an ordeal to get him up out of bed and ready for school on time - it's been this way since he started school at 4 years old. He stalls. He dawdles. He takes forever to do the simplest things. I've gotten to the point that I set the kitchen timer every morning to motivate him to get his butt moving. Four out of five mornings end up with me and/or Michael (depending on who is taking him to school that day) yelling at him to get moving. It's stressful. I hate it.

This morning was no different. I got him up at 6, the usual time. Forty-five minutes later I go into his room and he's still not even dressed. I was pissed, so I yelled at him. He then takes it out on Joey and starts bickering with him, and next thing I know, they're taking turns coming at me and tattling on each other. Kevin ended up telling Joey to "shut up" this morning. Which is NOT acceptable, that language. So I let Kevin have it again, about his language. But he never takes responsibility, it's always someone else's fault (this is a trait I am convinced he inherited from his father - his actual, biological father - which makes it even more difficult for me to swallow, because, really? I can hardly bear the thought of Kevin being anything like him). An hour after I originally got him up out of bed, he finally saunters into the kitchen for breakfast, in a bad mood, with a big ol' attitude. He and I start going at it again, and finally he starts screaming at me and calls me "STUPID!" It was then that I lost it. I let my hand fly and smacked him (it landed on his arm I believe).

And right away visions of my own mother came to my head. This was NOT the kind of parent I set out to be. And granted, I don't let my hand fly like that very often, and I certainly don't beat the crap out of my kids like she did or verbally berate them. But this isn't about my mother. It's about me, and how big a failure I feel like now. For losing my temper like that. For losing perspective. For losing control. For alienating my kid, even just a little bit.

And he's only 12. I suspect it's only going to get worse, these episodes. He's got all these hormones churning through him. He's trying to figure out who he is and where he's going. He's stuck in some pergatory between child and adult and sometimes has a hard time figuring out how to deal with that. I know. I remember. My memories of being 12 . . . and beyond . . . are not pleasant ones.

He later came to me and apologized for calling me "stupid." I told him that not only is name-calling anyone unacceptable, but saying "stupid" is no better than saying "retarded." He started crying then. It's very, very unsettling to see your 12-year-old son cry.

Ach.

I need to do better with this kid.