Do you know the first rule of parenthood? Never brag about how well your kid is sleeping. Doing so is guaranteed to invite the wrath of the sleep gods who will throw your arrogance in your face by giving you one of the worst nights of your life.

I’ve learned that lesson the hard way. More than once. (Ahem.) So, no, this post is not about sleep. But it does sort of feel like I’m about to break a similar rule.

A few months ago I was struggling. I don’t even know what this struggle is anymore. Antenatal depression? Regular old depression? A habit? A rut? I was just struggling. I dreaded coming home from work because I knew Connor would get all riled up. He would run around and jump on me and yell and sing and I would want to go into my room and close the door.

I had all my walls up. The ones covered in ugly graffiti that said things like I can’t and I don’t want to. Some days my inner monologue said it’s him and others it’s me.

I think it was me.

I mentioned a few weeks ago that Rich took Connor camping. Twice, actually. I stayed home because I’ve determined after careful research that me + pregnancy + camping = no fun for anyone.

The first weekend I was terrified that being on my own meant I’d stay in bed and not do anything and feel horrible and depressed as a result. (Previous research has shown this to be the likely outcome.) So I made a bunch of plans and was quite productive. I enjoyed my time alone, but by the time the weekend was coming to an end I was dreading their return home because I knew it would be the end of my solitude and a return to the battle of the 4-year-old vs. the introvert.

But quiet weekends also provide an opportunity to think. And in the midst of my puttering and planning some thoughts came in. The same ones I often think, but without the background noise it was easier to hear them.

I’ve talked to a few people about my difficult dynamic with Connor, most notably my mother and my new psychiatrist.

My mom – never really one to hold back – observed that the way I respond to him (shutting down, pushing him away) provokes his reaction (more loud and provocative behavior to get attention) and so on until we’re swirling around in a whirlpool of water that I can’t really see until we actually flush ourselves down the toilet and I realize it’s too late. (My metaphor, not hers.)

My psychiatrist – who I really like – commiserated with me. She tells me her own stories of too much and be quiet and for God’s sake STOP!! On more than one occasion she has said, “Being a mom is really fucking hard.” (Did I mention I really like her?)

So in those quiet moments when these thoughts came in I got to what if I…? and maybe…

And when they got home I did and it was.

Connor pushed my buttons, but instead of screaming inside my head I acknowledged my anger and frustration and then gently set them aside and took a deep breath. Don’t provoke the cycle.

It worked.

Not to say, of course, that I am now motherhood personified, but I think in that process something clicked.

I can see what he needs and not only what I don’t want.

I can catch the ridiculousness of fighting with him over whether we use the bath towel I have in my hand or the one he wants, which is in the linen closet down the hall.

I understand that he wants attention and time to play, and while that’s often really hard for me I’m more often than not finding a way to do it.

But I’m still not letting him squeeze the toothpaste all over the bathroom. (Even with motherhood personified there has to be a line.)

That was several weeks ago and things since have been indescribably different. I have managed, for once, to grab onto the feeling of enjoying motherhood and not have it immediately whisked away. I’m enjoying my time with him. He’s funny – so, so funny – and I get to observe from a much more connected place the person he is becoming.

I sincerely hope that in sharing this I haven’t broken an unspoken rule of motherhood because I like this feeling and I’d like things to stay this way.

Click.