Please, Make Me Not Hit You
It happened on the last night of my husband's five-day work trip. My son was two years old and I hadn't gotten a full night of sleep in that many years. So there was that. And then there was this, my son was acting like a two-year-old…again. My ultimate fantasy at that point was not to win the lottery or have my very own baby, miniature pony or be swept off of my bunion-ridden feet by the last remaining intelligent, non sexual-predator man on earth (actually, that's the very definition of my husband, except I had to wait to be swept off of my feet until he returned from his work trip), no, my ideal evening would have been to get my son to bed in record time so that I could enjoy (i.e. slam) a glass (or two) of wine before retiring to my bed with an easy to read magazine that even a sleep deprived, mushy-brained mom could somewhat understand—People magazine (yep). But alas, as I tried to brush Henry's sixteen little teeth he stomped his chubby foot and squawked, "NO!!!"
Well, that was it! I. Could. Not. Take. ANYMORE. I barely kept myself from violently shaking him as I demanded through clenched teeth in my scary mom voice, "Open your mouth, NOW!" The poor kid started crying hysterically as he called out "Mama, Mama". But I didn't stop there, I had fallen down the sticky, dark rabbit hole and wanted to be seen in all of my anguish. I kept loudly explaining that he was making me miserable, I needed a break, I can't take it anymore. Decades of rotten crap ruthlessly spewing forth as the old monster inside of me was jarred awake. This was not the first or last time my abandoned, angry self would rear its needy head but it was a memorable one. I lost control for long enough to be hurtful to this young being who didn't deserve to witness this coming from one of the two people he trusts and looks up to the most in the world.
As the vitriol continued to spew out of my mouth I looked down at my forlorn son clinging desperately to my legs. When I took a breath I noticed a minute crack in my fury. It stopped me in my tracks. I wasn't angry at Henry, he's an innocent, little person bearing the brunt of the shit-storm that's been brewing inside of me for forty years. I left Henry crying in the bathroom so that I could be alone to gather myself.
I realize that the level of difficulty of raising kids is different for everybody due to their own personal life circumstances including how each parent was raised, their natural constitution, what they currently have going on in their lives, the natural constitution of their kids (assholes vs. sometimes assholes), and all of that sort of unpredictable stuff; regardless, kids are tough. Really fucking tough and I don't believe anyone with a kid would think otherwise even if they won't admit it out loud. I have an amazingly great kid who is pretty darned far from being an asshole and it's still the most difficult thing I've done in my life, hands down.
In addition to the innate difficulties of child rearing I get to add the impediment of being a "geriatric mother". I kid you not, this is a real medical term but if that's too harsh then the sugar-coated "advanced maternal age" might add enough smoke and mirrors to make it palpable, or not. And then there are the ugly issues I've buried deep down inside my subconsciousness, fermenting into a stinky, bubbly mess. Although I have been in some form of mental health therapeutic counseling situation my entire adult life and have had a meditation practice on and off for twenty years, I still have barely scratched the crusty, hard-edged surface of it. My advice to others with both of these situations is that deciding to have even one child should be a very weighty and well thought out decision. One might even think about it for so long that it becomes physically impossible to have a kid and therefore the decision is made for you. But if you only have the shoved-down, ugly-issues problem, be careful of waiting long enough that you are still able to have a kid but then fall into the "geriatric parent" affliction, like me. Needless to say, this is not an advice column.
After a few minutes, I went back into the crying-toddler bathroom and gathered Henry in my arms and took him into his room. I sat him down next to me and explained that the way I acted was unfair to him and that I had been at the end of my rope, which garnered a sweet giggle and the response, "end of your rope?!?" So I explained that I had gotten so frustrated that I had "gone off the deep end". A hiccup, a precious smile, and a questioning, "deep end of what?" He'd never heard these idioms and thought they sounded funny. Sweet relief. We both started laughing as I hugged him and told him I was sorry and that I would continue to work on releasing my frustration in healthier ways.
Years later I'm able to remember this occasion without always cringing because I realize that years of working through my stuff had brought me to a place where I was able to recognize that I was projecting onto Henry while I was doing it. Big, major deal because it's so easy to just keep my head buried while I loudly blame others and then make stories up in my head to continue pointing my finger in order to deflect myself from seeing myself. Time to open my eyes, put on my big-girl pants and wake the hell up.
I'm not going to try to pull the wool over your eyes, parenting is not a piece of cake. Once in a blue moon I go off my rocker and it seems as though I'm not playing with a full deck. I know I shouldn't give up my day job to be a full-time mother, oh wait, I already have. But there's no use crying over spilled milk after biting off more than I can chew.