Something I Needed to Hear

This is going to be a long post... so if you don't have time to read it... then maybe later?  I LOVE this chapter in the book I just read called "Mom to Mom, Day to Day: Advice and Support for Catholic Living." by Danielle Bean (2007).  I have to write the whole thing because it's just too good not to.. And then I will tell you about my glorious self (not really).

Here it is.  Thank you, Danielle!

It's the Little Things

I don't know about you, but I can handle big disasters.  I actually keep my cool rather well in crisis situations.  It's the little things that get me.  Some days, the continual accumulation of tiny annoyances builds and builds until at great long last, it threatens to do me in.

One recent Saturday, my husband, Dan, took the older boys fishing.  Left alone with the other children for the afternoon, I decided we could get a start on some gardening work that needed to be done.  The strawberry patch was most pressing - the plants had arrived a few days before and had been weighing on my conscience ever since.  The box was well stamped with warnings: PERISHABLE PRODUCT!  PLANT IMMEDIATELY!  DO NOT DELAY!

But we had nowhere ready to plant them yet.  So I put baby Raphael down for his nap and asked Kateri to find me a shovel.  Raphael must have sensed my impending plans for actually accomplishing something.  He whined.  He shouted.  He sobbed.  But he would not nap.

Well, it was a beautiful, sunny afternoon, so I scooped him from his bed, brought him outside, and plunked him - barefoot - in the sandbox.  I charged Juliette with supervising him, picked up the shovel, and headed into the field.

As it turned out, however, the grassy spot I had scouted out for the strawberries was actually a rather mossy spot.  Thickly mossy.  Densely mossy.  Though I stabbed at the earth with the shovel, it remained obstinate.  At one point, I managed to get the blade of the shovel to break through just a bit, and then I proceeded to jump on it with both feet.  This acrobatic performance did little to improve the situation.

For her part, three-year-old Gabrielle was doing little to improve the situation either.  She parked herself on the ground beside me and moaned about a recent injury.  If I held my head to one side and squinted at her knee just so, I could barely make out a tiny, almost-pink line where she had suffered a scrape after falling off her tricycle.

"Need band-aid Mama." she whined. "Neeeeeeeeeed band-aaaaaaid."

It was right about that time that the beautiful springtime sun became vicious.  It mercilessly beat down upon my back and shoulders, and I felt a trickle of sweat form between my shoulder blades.

It was right about that time, too, that the black flies made their appearance.  Where on earth did they come from?  And how could I have not noticed them before?  They swarmed and buzzed in my ears.  Perniciously, they bit at my neck and weaseled their way into my eyes, my nostrils, and down my shirt.  

Come to think of it, it was right about that time, too, that Raphael tired of the sandbox and called for me, arms outstretched, from across the field.  It was right about then that I knelt down on the ground to examine it and felt the cold wet of recent rains seep through the knees of my jeans.  It was right about then that I realized I had been attempting to overturn not a small patch of earth but an enormous, moss-covered chunk of granite.  It was right about then that I recalled that the strawberry patch was my husband's idea in the first place.  It was right about then that I remembered I had left a load of clothes in the dryer that were probably sitting, cold and wrinkled, awaiting attention in my house.  It was right about then that I thought of the casserole I had intended to put together during Raphael's nap and the chicken I had neglected to remove from the freezer that morning.

I will spare you (okay, me) the details of what happened next.  Maybe some wildly immature person threw a shovel and shouted something she shouldn't have.  Anyway, it's none of your business if she did.  She probably doesn't usually do that kind of thing and maybe she felt bad about it afterwards and it was probably just all those little annoying things that got to her.

Because motherhood can be so overwhelming and because all the necessary, tiny tasks that make up our daily routines as wives and mothers can be so mind-numbing and frustrating, I'm in good company.  Many mothers I know struggle with controlling their tempers.

Sometimes, even perfect strangers will ask me: "Do you ever have a bad day?  do you ever yell at your kids?  Every time, I can hear the hope and uncertainty in the questioner's voices.  They want desperately to know: Is this normal?  Am I a bad mother because I lost my temper sometimes?  Do other mothers yell at their kids?

Why, oh why, do we women insist upon torturing ourselves with the thought that every mother in the world is perfect...except ourselves.

When w see a cheerful woman with well-behaved children in the grocery store or at Mass, why do we assume she never has a bad moment?  Why do we think that other moms have it all together all the time?  Why do we imagine that other women have perfect marriages, ever-orderly homes, and sophisticated spiritual lives?  Why do we believe that we are the only ones who ever get tired or cranky or just plain "sick of it" and yell at our children?

We all have different temperaments, of course, so some mothers are going to struggle with their tempers more than others.  But I really do believe that every mother does yell at her kids, at least occasionally.  As a natural consequence of embracing the motherly vocation, we will have our patience tried and tried and tried.  This is part of the difficulty of parenting that might not be immediately apparent to an outside observer.  The spilled juice.  The whiny two-year-old.  The bickering preteens. The dishes, the laundry, the carpooling.  Eventually, some small thing happens, like a potty mess or an act of disobedience, and we lose it.  We yell.  We might even cry.  And then we feel terrible afterward.

Ok, so I read this and I thought, FINALLY, someone has said it.  All mothers yell at their children.  I agonize over this problem myself, and after reading this chapter, I've actually wondered if I'm one of those mothers who struggles with a temper more than others.  What I do know, is I can totally relate to this mom in that I am soooo good at ignoring things.  I can handle all kinds of stressful situations.  The kids are yelling and fighting.  The supper is not working the way I've planned.  I got home late from work so I'm already behind.  I'm telling myself in my head. "It's ok.  You can do this.  One thing at a time."  But as these things all pile up, and I'm working so hard at remaining calm, eventually I do have a breaking point.  Sadly, the breaking point usually makes no sense at all.  Someone just has to be the straw that breaks the camel's back.  Whether it be the child who asks for help with homework while I am making supper (can you not see that now is not a good time?) or the kid who wants me to get them a snack, when I'm sitting on the toilet (again, NOT A GOOD TIME!).  Eventually, I too, hit my breaking point, and I YELL.  It feels really good right away, but afterwards, I am so sorry, and I am berating myself for being such a BAD mom, and usually end up apologizing.

It is nice to be reminded that I can stop torturing myself in those moments and stop comparing myself to other "more perfect" moms.  I'm doing the best that I can.  I screw up A LOT, but I love my kids very much, and I am a work in progress.

With that note, I'll leave you with yet another one of my bright, shining moments.  Doug came home from work yesterday and went back to the bedroom.  He came back out with a smile on his face.  He says to me, "Did you yell at Holly today?"  I said, "Why?  Did I get another note?"  He breaks into laughter (because of course, he has NEVER received a note of the likes yet, and I have received too many to count). And he finds this very amusing.

If you're having trouble reading it.  My daughter writes (in the most adorable first grade handwriting), "Mom you are nice but you been mean to me and can we please try on summer clothes!"  And just because I thought you might enjoy reading another one from my past (as if this blog isn't long enough already)...

I will translate for you:  For Mom  From: Holly

Mom you make me sad when you yell at me.  I just want you to be more nicer.  You make me really sad.  Mom you make me cry really hard.  (I think she added that for special effect - Oh the drama!) Please can you be more nicer?  I love you so so so much!

Please know that sometimes, this is just how you are perceived when you are doing what's best for your child, and they really don't like it!  First graders just can't have everything they want.