The One I Said I Had to Write Before I Could Write Anything Else

(This post might not make much sense to some people. It might seem like a rambling, self-indulgent mess. I understand this but I’m publishing it anyway because it’s therapeutic for me, and because someone else out there might be struggling in a similar fashion with this particular challenge of parenthood and hey, there’s strength in numbers. However, I’m choosing not to publish the first few paragraphs I wrote for this post, which described in detail a recent incident that illustrates my current problem. I decided I don’t want my kids to read such a harsh memory sometime down the line when they stumble upon Mom’s blog — which will probably be way sooner than I presently imagine.)

I always thought I was a laid-back person; my whole life people have said that. “God, you’re so laid-back.” “Everything just rolls right off your back. Do you ever get mad?” I used to answer, “Not really; it takes a lot for me to get mad,” but I can’t say that anymore.

Because now that I’m a mom, I seem to get angry at the drop of a hat.

I know it’s not reasonable to believe I should never get mad at my kids. I know this because they're kids, which means they’re going to yank on the dog’s tail for the millionth time after I told them not to. They’re not always going to be quiet when I want them to, or stay still for a diaper change. At some point just about every day, they’re going to piss me off. What I have trouble with is how assertive — and loud — I get when I’m angry.

I’m ashamed at how often I suddenly reach the end of my fuse and lash out at my two little ones. I do not physically harm them (and sometimes that takes a fair amount of control on my part), but I know my rage hurts them. I know my tone of voice, my shouting, my “I don’t care about you right now” body language, and my twisted angry face hurt them. And each time it fills me with remorse because, obviously, I do care about them, more than anything in this world, and I have no idea why I can’t demonstrate that love all the time.

Let me be clear: I’m not saying I don’t think you should ever yell at your kids, or reprimand them, or send them to Time Out. I think discipline is healthy for kids, limits are necessary, and trust is gained when the child knows implicitly that the parent is in charge. But I’m not talking about discipline. I’m talking about unnecessary, unhealthy anger and intimidation.

When I heard that old “Being a parent is hard work” cliche before I had children, I assumed it was referring to the physically demanding aspects of parenting — the fact that someone is constantly needing something from you, whether it be a diaper change or a bottle of milk or a hug or a tickle or a sock put back on a bare foot or a clean sheet or clean spoon or clean slate from his last tantrum over absolutely nothing. (Whew!) I had no idea that the “hard work” might actually be mental and emotional work a parent does on oneself, striving to make oneself a better person and, therefore, a better parent. More open. Centered. Balanced. Creative. Spiritual. And the hardest of all, for me — more patient.

I know people without kids also work to improve themselves. I’m just sayin’ there’s this weird inner spotlight that’s clicked on when you have a child since you are from that moment on not only an individual but also An Example. Along with your new baby you get a white-hot light that beams directly on you, shining its light in the darkest crevices of your psyche for the rest of your life. Instantly you become the star of The Parent Show, and you have a captive audience All The Freakin’ Time in the form of a pint-sized human being who’s using way more brain power than you are to soak up everything you do and say like a sponge. (Break a leg!)

This aspect of parenthood has delighted and frightened me. I’ve been trying diligently to embrace more positivity in my life. I’ve worked on judging less and accepting more. I’ve strengthened my relationship with God. But I am having a really unexpectedly difficult time building up my patience reserves. And on my worst days, I fear I’m losing Kostyn to my stress and my temper. Every moment that I react to him with anger instead of understanding, his identity and self-worth are molded and reshaped. And every day I hate myself a little bit more for not being sane enough to count to 10 like other parents, for not forcing myself to go into another room and scream into a pillow when I want to scream at him.

I could pick a dozen excuses for why my stress levels are fraying the edges of my nerves, making me prone to flying off the handle when my kids’ behavior doesn’t match my expectations or desires. I could say I’m overtired and sleep-deprived. I could whine that I’m alone with them too much. I don’t have a hobby or any type of outlet outside the home to offer a little space between me and my boys now and then. I could even point out that I haven’t been physically healthy in awhile.

While those may be contributing factors, I still have the intelligence to choose a reaction to a situation rather than let it choose me. In fact, it’s my job as a parent to do just that. I can’t be the 2-year-old who throws a fit when something doesn’t go my way, because I have to be the mother of a 2-year-old who throws a fit when something doesn’t go his way.

Through a lot of reflection, study and prayer, at least I have a grasp on the problem. I realize I have trouble accepting the *feeling* of anger, of disempowerment, without needing to bring someone down in order to lift myself back up to the power position. Now I must find the strength in a heated moment to validate that feeling of anger -- since feelings aren’t bad or good, they just are -- without needing to turn it into any form of negative action (unless one is truly called for, of course).

So I’m working on asserting my patience to control the situation instead of my raised voice. I’m working on redirecting bad behavior calmly, or just allowing the moment to move forward peacefully. This might seem like second nature to many, but to me it’s hard work. It’s also extremely rewarding.

Sometimes I fail and sometimes I succeed, but I keep trying. It feels very powerful to choose one’s reaction rather than to be a slave to one’s struggling ego. And while I work on it, I wonder. I wonder if there are other parents out there like me. Or if all parents are like me. Part of me hopes so, and part of me hopes not.

One thing’s for sure, though: Being a parent is hard work.

[Postscript: Interesting that this article on yelling parents was published today, right after my post. Made me feel even worse for having this problem. But again, I'm working on it.]