The Hardest Thing.

The truth of the matter is I have everything I've ever dreamed of and I still feel like shit tonight. I have the self esteem of a broken eggshell that just got crushed by an old brown boot.
I have a (two!) jobs I love, I have the best husband in the world for me, I have two adorable healthy boys, I'm not an ugly betty (although I have the confidence of one) and yet tonight I really am feeling low.
I don't get a ton of time with my boys and tonight was going alright until number one decided to play games with his mama's mind at nine PM. By nine PM I am done. I can handle getting off my second job at seven PM, after leaving the house twelve hours earlier to start our day, grabbing my two starving monkeys and driving the thirty minutes it takes to get to our humble abode. I can handle making dinner in chaos, Noah hanging off my right leg, Ethan's non-stop chattering asking me to look! play! watch! see!, all of our tummies growling. I can handle two bed time routines done by yours truly, the fifteen minutes it takes to change Noah's diaper because he somehow manages to wiggle away from me as I try with dainty fingers not to get poop all over myself or the floor, brushing his toddler teeth as he screams like someone is trying to circumcise him sans anesthesia. I can handle falling asleep in the rocking chair as I sing Noah song after song, even though it won't matter: one or twenty, he still wails when I shut the door to say goodnight. I can manage playing "flip up" with Ethan (his favorite 'wrestle' game before bedtime) even though I know it gets him all riled up instead of calming him down. I can manage tickling his back and singing him songs (again, even though it is never enough and he wines for more every. single. night.) but when I walk out his door at nine PM or so, I am done.
Done.
And this is when he decides to play games.
He'll say he has a question, or has to poop, or has an emergency, like he found a bugger on his blankie.
I can handle one or two after tuck-in interruptions, but by three I hear a voice coming out of my mouth I don't recognize, and I can only imagine what I look and sound like to him.
There's so many things going into play here.
Number one, he's not obeying. I clearly laid out the rules that when I walk out his door, there is no more talking.
Number two, my confidence as a mother, leading, guiding. I suck at it! I think the worst thing I did ever in my whole life was read parenting help books. Or maybe I need to read more of them. At any rate, I never feel like what I am doing is right unless I can step back and tell myself, "You're doing OK honey. You're voice was a little rough there, but at least he's safe and has a bed and jammies and dinner."

Tonight, after three horrible back and forths with him, I finally just shut his door. Pissed as I was, I knew I couldn't control him. He's only five, and you think you could. But I already see he's on his own, him and the world and God. And I have to be ok with that as a mother, as a person. He'll do things in life I don't agree with. He'll disrespect me.  And somewhere I have to let it go, have the grace to not let my heart harden and hate him.
I've read enough parenting books to know that is a no no.
And I can't live like that anyways. He's my baby boy and now he's in there sleeping with his mouth open, his tiny little legs sticking out of his super hero undies.
This parenting thing is the hardest thing. That's all.