I just poured hot water from the kettle into my cracked green cup. Time for the nightly chamomile and and spearmint tea, the cap to every day, no matter how long, happy, or miserable. I'm sure the tea will soothe me tonight, but when I replaced the smudged kettle, I stopped a moment in the dark kitchen to put my head in my hand. Inside, I feel a nagging heaviness, the lingering consequence of an explosion in my chi this morning.
I'd taken a few minutes to write and when I turned around, the downstairs was a mess. The girls had been enjoying themselves, and proof of their jovial time was all around me. Every room had been tipped on its side, and though it was gorgeous outside, we'd not only have to dress and ready everyone, but then we'd have to clean up. And cleaning is soooooo boring. Though the girls are independent and can do a fairly good job cleaning, I've been picking up after children for almost ten years now (I can hear you seasoned parents scoffing). Sometimes I just want to stuff it all.
"Who wants to clean ALL DAY?" I demanded. "Not me! Let's get going here!" I asked Elspeth to tidy, but instead she did things like roll around on the ground and set her pencils in a pattern on the kitchen table. I could feel the tension building up inside, and I knew I'd be sorry later, but the wave hit me full in the face and I started spitting.
It was not a pretty sight, especially when my anger hit the utterly ridiculous repetitive stage and I stuttered, "Put it away! Put it away! Put it away!" Ad infinitum, and so on and so on. I heard Bea in the adjoining room wondering aloud, "Why she saying, 'Put it away, Put it away?'"
Not a pretty sight. After I'd yelled for a bit, I felt a headache creeping up the front of my skull. Not surprising.
And then it was all over and I was talking on the phone and showering and the girls watched Sesame Street and we all went for a lovely walk.
But I just hate it when I lose my temper. As always, I apologized. Seeing your child's face crumple in bewildered grief when you yell has to be the worst thing in the whole world. Why can't I be chill all the time, and controlled, and cool, and surf the top of every swell? Why do I end up under the wave, rolling, hitting the sand, my suit full of seaweed and my nose full of saltwater?
Maybe I should develop a coping twitch like the pitcher I'm watching at the moment. Somebody from Detroit. He's got a whole set of crazy little things he does before every pitch. Tug on the ball cap, spit, shrug, shrug again. The kids would see me twitching and they'd know to jump to attention. Watch out for Mommy. She's warming up. She's doing her thing. No yelling required.
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3 comments:
If you've never lost you temper with your kids, then they've spent their childhood at boarding school!
We all swear we'll never get mad, and we will never, ever say some of the things our parents said to us.
Then one day, you realize in Slo-Mo words are escaping your lips that you heard every day as a kid
"So help me, you kids will be the death of me!" or
as I heard from my Dad "Boy, what is wrong with you!" normally followed by a tapestry of colorful country language.
Ariel laughs at the memory of some of our memorable blow ups. He was so talented he could even make your sweet Auntie go Postal!
Imagine that! You will survive dearie, and so will they.
Oh, Kim, I've been in your shoes. I still choke up when I replay certain scenes behind my closed eyes. My children laughingly refer to "psycho mom," the crazy lady who would now and then repeat a mantra like "put your things away, put your things away." The fact that they laugh proves that love outweighs the spitting moment here and there.
Seasoned teachers instruct others to blow up every once in awhile to keep students on their toes. I subscribe to a similar theory of parenting, though these moments are mostly unplanned. But effective.
In all seriousness, it's useful to kids to see honest reactions to their behaviors. We must provide a mirror for children so they can see how they affect the world. The apologizing is just fine, too, and part of the teaching. But they must see this human side of you in order to become better little humans themselves.
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