Squirrel: It's What's for Supper

Sometimes, as a parent, I am aware of how well I've handled a situation with my kids. Be it disciplinary, social, or emotional difficulties, some situations resolve with a feeling of satisfaction on my part. As the boys' problems are eased, if not solved, I can tuck them in to bed knowing I have done my best for them, and they feel better about themselves.
Then, there are other times.
Last night, I sent the boys out with Clooney. I was preparing dinner, and setting the table. Way too quickly, all three of them were back in the kitchen. I turned around from the sink to find S holding a dead squirrel in his tiny little fist.
That was it. That was the moment where my mothering instinct failed, my urge to protect my boys' feelings failed, my impulse to put their feelings above mine, failed. It all failed right then at the sight of that bloodied, limp squirrel drooping from Sam's hand.
I screamed.
A lot. I might have even jumped up and down a little bit. I screamed some more. I ran out of the room to hide. I ran back into the room to see if they had left. I screamed again. I ran out. I screamed for M. I screamed at S. I kept screaming.
Of course M was right there. He might have been in the kitchen when the whole thing started. I am not sure. But he was calm. He took the squirrel out. He took the boys out. He took off their possibly rabid clothing and washed their hands and arms and legs with diluted bleach.
I screamed.
He determined that E told S to bring the squirrel inside. And that E had also handled the squirrel despite his protests to the contrary.
I screamed.
M wrapped the squirrel in funerary Target bags and deposited it in the trash. He examined the squirrel to determine that the cat had killed it and that it had not up and died, foaming at the mouth and hydrophobic.
I sat in the kitchen. Trying my best to console S. He was distressed that a.) the squirrel had died b.) he was stripped down and washed in hot water c.) I was screaming
He was totally baffled. From his perspective, his compassion for the squirrel had gone horribly wrong, and through some fast and very noisy events he was standing naked in the kitchen fully assessing for the first time what happens when good moms go bad.
I drank a gin and tonic. More gin than tonic and hastily stirred.
Dinner's noodles were overcooked, as was the asparagus. S never really recovered. I kept drinking.
Last night, when I tucked S into bed, I apologized for freaking him out. I told him I handled it badly, that I wasn't expecting to see him with a dead rodent in my kitchen. That I was sorry for scaring him.
Sometimes my best behavior is not my first behavior. And apparently, my anti-deadsquirrel-impulse is stronger than my protect-S's-feelings-at-all-cost impulse. Who knew?