Tree against sky, December 2012

It is 6:30 p.m., witching hour in my house. I am frustrated. Tired of the whine fuss complain tattle cycle my kids are locked in. The text messages from my husband keep pushing back his arrival time 10 minutes by 10 minutes. I find myself saying things like You guys are driving me totally nuts and I can’t hear myself think, as I attempt to keep them occupied while making dinner and then to eat what I’ve made.

Finally I reach my limit, my wavering line in the sands of tolerance. The angry voices inside my head – the ones saying Is this really what it’s like to have children? – are louder than the music I’m playing in a vain attempt to relax or the screams Emry is producing as I try to tempt and trick him into eating.

I say, “I’m leaving.” Grab my keys. Put on my jacket. Slam the door behind me.

Before I slam the door, I consider saying, “I’ll be right back.” But I don’t. I slam the door and walk outside, into the crisp night air. Take a breath of freedom.

Even as I walk down the driveway, I’m ticking off boxes in my head, assuring myself they’re both safe: Emry is strapped into his high chair, so he can’t do that maneuver where he tries to plummet himself off the counter-high table to the slate floor below. He can’t reach anything or pull anything down on top of himself. More boxes: Oven off. Nothing sharp in reach. No fire in the fireplace. No boiling water on the stove.

I walk to the mailbox. It is empty. I glance at the sky without really seeing it. I am mad. Mad that it has to feel this hard sometimes. Mad at myself that I get so worked up, that I let them get under my skin. Mad at them for their inability to JUST STOP doing what they’re doing.

Coming back up the driveway, I remind myself to calm down. I try to take a deep breath. Now I hear both of them crying. And when I walk back in, they are exactly where I left them, Elan perched on his stool, Emry in his high chair, tears exploding from both their eyes as they howl. It almost makes me laugh, because it somehow seems comical. I don’t know what I expected, that in my 90 seconds away, Elan would jump into the caretaker role? That one of them would comfort the other?

Did I really scare them? Was that my intent? To shock them into behaving? If so, did it work? They quiet down within moments of my arrival, of my telling them, “I just went to the mailbox. Mama would never leave you,” adding “you know that,” as if reassuring myself that they do in fact know that, remorse pricking at me.

I want to be the rock on their shores, provide an unwavering stability they can dash themselves against when they encounter stormy seas. I want to help them both feel secure as they grow into young men in this seemingly insecure world. But sometimes I just want them to shut the fuck up. I feel harassed, like they need need need but they don’t care, as if there is no end to their needs, but my own are unimportant.

As I reached the end of the driveway, I thought how easy it would be to leave. Not easy as in emotionally possible. But logistically? Piece of cake. The car was parked at the curb. The keys were in my hand. So easy it’s amazing how few mothers actually do leave.

Walking out like that was borderline. I don’t regret leaving – I’m a firm believer that sometimes Mama needs a self-imposed time out – but I do regret stifling my impulse to say I’ll be right back. I regret not giving them that little token of security in my moment of stress. I regret being childish with my children.

I don’t want to be the angry mom. I don’t want to use power and control and fear to get my way. I had a momentary impulse to show them my power over them, to let them feel how helpless they are without me. And maybe I needed to realize that myself. Maybe I needed to come right up against my own border line, even to feel that I had taken a step across it, so that I could find it, so that I could feel it, so that I could give it the respect it deserves.