Batman and his trusty companion, February 2013
When I am gray-haired and my children are grown, and I am sitting by a fire reminscing, will I remember the way that Emry poops four times a day and always when we’re running late leaving the house? And how Elan never does what I say until the 4th time I say it, with frustration? Or will I think about how they’d put their little hands in mine, how Elan would actually never want to be out of my presence in the house, how Emry would grab my leg and hold on?
Will I remember how I sometimes (okay, often) lose my patience and get THAT TONE in my voice, the one that caused Emry to cover his little hands over his ears while I was berating Elan about getting his shoes on so we wouldn’t be late to school AGAIN. If I do, will I feel more or less ashamed about it than I did that very day, in the car after I dropped Elan off?
I don’t want to be the parent who berates. Disciplines, yes. But in the moment of frustration, sometimes the line between the two feels fuzzy.
Afterward, it’s much clearer: if I was berating, I feel guilty; if I was disciplining (calmly, without drama), I feel fine.
If only I could, in the moment, transport myself in time, in my head, so that I could identify that line. And then have the self-control to just stop talking. To stop venting my frustration. Ideally, to stop feeling so frustrated.
I don’t want to be the parent who berates. When I hear other parents doing it, it sounds ugly. But I notice, lately, that my frustration meter goes from zero to 60 mighty fast. One moment, I’m rolling with whatever chaos or lack of cooperating is happening. I’ve got my sense of humor and my sense of perspective both intact. The next moment, I’m incredibly tense, feeling desperate for some kind of control and I say things like No one is listening to me! or We have to go NOW!
In those moments, I feel like I have no power and no voice until I yell. When I yell, my children notice. They stop doing what they’re doing. They start listening. But sometimes they cry. Sometimes their little faces fall and they cover their ears. And then I feel like a bad mom. Like my words – and my way of delivering them – are ugly.
I don’t want to be the parent who berates. If i had some nifty trick up my sleeve for how to avoid this, I’d share it. But I don’t. I’m just muddling through, day to day. Some moments proud of how I react to my children, some moments not so proud. Just another human mama, showing up.
