The First “I Hate You”: A Memoir of a Moment

The Background

Ever since Creature started school, her sleep has been… well, let’s just say some curse words.

At school, she naps with the class. At the grandparents’, someone always sleeps with her. At home? She’s decided sleep is optional. Instead, we get hours of screaming, thrashing, & inconsolable tears. Her tonsils are inflamed—I’m terrified she’ll need surgery.

Every night, we start off with our best gentle-parenting selves. The first hour, gold stars all around. By the second hour, we’re tagging in and out. By the third hour… not our finest moments.

& the worst part—it’s my child crying, overtired & irrational, while I feel powerless.

(please, don’t insert advice here-we’ve truly tried everything this summer.)

The Week

One night at 4 a.m., after getting kicked in the ribs while trying to tuck a blanket back on her, I broke. I stress-cried.

The next morning, she didn’t remember most of it. But she did look at me & say, “Mom, that sounded like fake crying. That wasn’t nice.”

The cloud rolled in.

& the day that followed, longer-than-expected solo kid shifts, a medication flare-up, canceled plans, kitchen construction chaos, interrupted phone calls, stolen “me time” that turned into playing pretend at the park. I was “on” nonstop & my brain was already foggy with mental weather.

The Night

So when bedtime came around again, I was already dreading it—

I sang her lullaby, tucked her in, & tried to reason gently: “Mom can’t fight this tonight. I’m feeling a cloud, & I can’t do the screaming.”

She looked me in the eye & said,
“Well, Mom, I hate you.”

I walked out.

Now, maybe you’re thinking: Don’t take it personally. She’s emotional. Kids don’t mean it. & yes—I know that, deep down. But in the moment? It was worse than the kick to the gut.

I felt like I was failing. Like I wasn’t doing any of this right. Like the chaos was all my fault.

The Parent Moment

I mean, I always knew this moment was coming. I just thought it would be during the teenage years—not preschool.

I remember telling my own parents I hated them. I remember the rebellion, the dramatic sighs, even calling them “parental units” for months instead of Mom & Dad (but this was during the teenage years).

But when she escalated the timeline, those weren’t the memories I thought about.

The moment brought back a deeper memory—an intense fight with my dad. I was advocating for myself, telling him how something he did had hurt me. His response?
“I can’t wait until one day your kids say they hate you for the way you are.”

(note-I hadn’t told him I hated him, I was merely setting a boundary for something)

& that comment burrowed deep. I remember answering him, “I hope so too, Dad. Because when they say they hate me, I’ll talk it out with them. I’ll ask what I’m doing to spark that feeling—& what I can change.”

So after my first “I hate you,” the next morning, when I still had to get up, put on my “fun mom” mask, & move forward.

I recognized my daughter’s feelings and—just like I promised myself years ago—adjusted how I responded.

We talked out our emotions & came up with a night-time plan to breath & set a timer. We hugged it out & had hopes for our emotions raising high together.

I took them to the grocery store, & we completed a Merrimaker #11Kacts Challenge. Against my better judgment, I even added sugar to the mix with surprise ice cream treats straight from the freezer aisle. For a moment, I let myself move past the heaviness of the night before.

Of course, the sugar-fueled monsters came back to haunt me during my work calls, & yes—I cried in the chaos all over again. But we both held onto the brighter memory of that day, choosing to let it grow bigger than the hard parts.

The After

We, I, survived my first “I hate you.”

I felt the sting. But I also felt the weight of that promise I once made: to face those words with openness, not defensiveness. To break the cycle. To teach my kids that love doesn’t vanish in the storm—it learns how to weather it.