It’s 7pm and you’re wondering if any other parents have kids this wild
Or is it just you with the flooded bathroom?
I screamed at my littlest tonight.
A full throated, lioness roar. No words, just “ROAR.”
It wasn’t cute. It was messy and both boys were crying. My oldest because the roar happened directly in his ear, since he was on my lap and I was drying his hair. And my littlest because he had just been happily refusing to clean the tub, flooding the bathroom with water-filled buckets and foam toys, and his mom just uttered a noise reserved for wild animals at him.
I could give you a million excuses.
I could tell you I’ve been up since 5am because our elder dog has taken to night-time roaming and crying out at odd hours and it feels like PTSD from when my dog-daughter, Sophie, started to make her exit…or postpartum. Definitely postpartum.
I could tell you neither of my kids have been listening tonight and it’s been easier to let them watch TV and wrestle and wreak havoc then go toe to toe over every little request and it’s just been building inside of me.
I could tell you that I’m feeling aimless in my career and insignificant since my financial contribution to our family and future is currently little to nil.
The speed with which I go from sheer bliss to full body rage is staggering. One moment I’m dripping with little boys kissing my neck and whispering, “I love you, Mama” and the next I’m feral.
Are other parents dealing with this kind of madness? Are other parents this mad?
Or are my kids fucked?
How much therapy is that reaction going to cost me?
Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m not built to handle the stresses of parenting. Maybe it’s my window of tolerance that needs to be pried open.
I know what it’s like to feel spacious. To be able to pause. I literally spend my entire day seeking those spaces and pauses.
But then once in a while (let’s be real, sometimes once a day), I feel clamped down by sticky fingers and heads purposefully slamming into my cheekbone and water flooding my bathroom and poop jokes and sand covering every surface and endless needs and little boys yelling into my face and refusing to eat the food I just burned the shit out of my arm making.
My window of tolerance isn’t just smaller. It’s sealed and shuttered. I don’t even think there is a window under there. It’s a brick wall and I’m banging my head against it over and over and over again.
I am cornered like a wild animal and so I respond like a wild animal—I scream.
But that’s no excuse.
I got my oldest dressed and warm quickly and then scooped up the littlest and held him like a baby. “I’m so sorry I yelled at you like that. I’m so sorry I scared you,” I could feel tears stinging my eyes, “I scared myself.”
He took a double gulp of breath and started twiddling my necklaces in his tiny hands. “These no come off?” he asked, looking right into my eyes. Searching for me again. Me? Fun mom. Calm mom. Loving mom.
I wiped the hot tears rolling down my cheek and hugged him a little closer. “No bud, these stay on forever,” and before I knew it we were all cuddling and reading books and they were annoying me in a healthy way again.
My window had opened back up. Fresh air was flowing in. We all took a collective breath and held each other a little closer.