Ode to an Angry Mum

We've all witnessed the public meltdown of a child. It can be embarrassing, trying to carry on like nothing is happening, while nearby a child is screaming as though her head is on fire. And often, in these situations, it's the parent whose behavior is most appalling. We've all had those moments when we're not sure if we should walk away or call child services, the judgements and dismay that well up inside us, and the blatant annoyance at another adult for making things so... unpleasant. We simply assume we'd do better, be more patient, or more kind, or have the good sense to whisk our child out of sight and earshot of the general public. Even those of us who have been that parent will judge, because - let's face it - parenthood is competitive, and the shortcomings of others bolsters our confidence in ourselves.

So I was feeling like the Queen Mother a few days ago, when outside of Beaner's school I witnessed a mother yelling at her son. She said really horrible things like, "shut up!" and "stop your crying!" and "it's your fault!" and there may have been a swear word in there. And we all know that these are things one should never, ever say to one's children. Doing my duty as a Better Person, I gazed sympathetically at the child while giving his mother the cold shoulder. Someone needed to show the poor child some love. Inwardly I despaired for the child's future, and wondered how on earth we're to fight the war on drugs/poverty/terrorists/devaluing of the dollar/LOL cats/corrupt Olympic judges when there are parents such as that in the world. And doesn't that woman know what she's missing? All the love and joy of being a parent, total bliss she can hold in her arms - if only she'd stop screaming at it.

Now, there are many adages and cliches to describe how I felt twelve hours later. Pride comes before the fall. Hoist by my own petard. There but for fortune. Karma's a bitch - and so on. As I stood facing my children, enraged and utterly spent of patience, telling them to shut up and leave me alone, I felt a swelling of regret for being so harsh on that other mother. Suddenly, I wanted nothing more than to meet her for drinks and gripe about how annoying our kids are. Because if anyone else saw me at that moment, they'd have despaired for the fate of the world. But not her - she'd get it. She'd understand that my Good Mommy persona had been under attack for days, how children push and scrape and eat away at our nerves and our sensitivities until we're so exhausted with turning the other cheek that we'd give anything just to be left alone for 70 seconds. And that's exactly what pushed me over the edge.

After a long, difficult day of balancing work and child care, trying to get stuff done while enriching the children's environment, keeping everyone fed and clean while overseeing homework and housechores, I was at the end of my reserves. It was not an atypical day. There might have been slightly more whining than usual, or more resistance to direction, but all in all it was a day like any other. Which is to say that the children created a constant assault on my senses. They never shut up. They need constant supervision. They want to be in constant contact with my body. They make it impossible to do simple things, like count to ten or use the bathroom. It's a little bit like being tortured by cute, lovable mercenaries. At any rate, by 9pm - when the kids should have been in bed, but were, instead, turning my dining room into a cross between a hurricane tragedy and an art studio - I needed some relief. 70 seconds. That's how long it takes to heat up a bottle for the baby. I clambered over the baby gate into the kitchen, calling as I went, "I'm getting a bottle ready. No one talk to me until I come back." In that 70 seconds, Tank hurt himself - twice. Beaner decided he wanted crackers - no, applesauce - no, yogurt - no, where's Daddy?! And Peanut had a brainstorm for a new board game about which he was simply bursting to talk, and nothing was going to stop him.  Before the timer for the bottle beeped, my quiet time had been interrupted seven times. And I snapped. The next thing I knew, I was standing in the dining room, my battle aura casting a pall over my now terrified children, as I yelled at them to "LEAVE ME ALONE! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU THAT CAN'T LEAVE ME ALONE FOR ONE STUPID MINUTE?!" My poor boys cowered and whimpered in my shadow, staring at me with fear and shame in their eyes.

For about five seconds. Then they resumed pestering me. I'm not proud that I regularly lose my temper with my kids. I'm not saying it's okay. But it happens, and I can either beat myself up about it or I can accept that I am a normal, flawed person. There are a couple of lines I've never crossed: I've never sworn at my kids, called them names, or blamed them for making me unhappy. Even in my worst moments I feel protective of them, even from myself. But the fact remains that sometimes I can't help but get angry and yell, and no matter what is said, an angry parent is an ugly parent. Surely, there are horrible parents in this world, but the angry outbursts we all witness in public aren't necessarily representative of a parent's overall tone with his or her children. For all we know, that parent has simply had more than he or she could take, and that pressure has to come out somehow. Does that make it okay? No. But it's not the worst thing a parent can do, either.

I ran into the other, yelling mother the next day. She and her son looked perfectly happy. I have no right to assume that she's a bad mother, no right to judge, or blame her for the horrible state of the world. The main difference between us, as far as I know, is that my angry outbursts are slightly less colorful. I don't condone her behavior any more than I condone my own, but I can be sympathetic. Parenting is hard. It takes everything we've got, and more. We are constantly at the breaking point, and children have no sensor that tells them when to back off. If the occasional, angry outburst is the worst of it, then the kids are going to be all right. If only we were encouraged to believe that, instead of living in constant awareness of others' opinions, we might not feel so much pressure in the first place. I wish I could say I'll never judge another parent again, but I will. I'm human, and scared that I'm failing at parenthood, so I'll always take note of parents who make me look better by comparison. But it's crucial to remember that, in our best and worst moments, most parents look pretty much the same.

Concerto in Combat Mode

Yesterday was the first day of spring, heralded by chilly weather, long lines at Rita's, and Peanut's annual spring concert. Traditionally, the spring concert is themed - Barnyard Moosical or The Amazing ABCs! This year was Recorder Karate. In case you've forgotten, the recorder is that instrument that looks like the abandoned love child of a flute and a clarinet. They're generally cheap, plastic, and dysfunctional. They have a bunch of holes, yet it's impossible to get any of them to change the pitch. But not for the kids of Recorder Karate! They can actually make those things play real music. Hi-ya!

At this point I'm sure you're wondering what karate has to do with the recorder. Unfortunately, the answer is not that recorders make excellent weapons. Even though they do; I can attest that the recorder, in the wrong, little hands, can deal a cracking blow to one's head (add it to the list of 'improvisational weapons one can buy at the dollar store'). Except for acknowledging the kids' progress with "belts", Recorder Karate has nothing to do with martial arts whatsoever. It is merely a senseless comparison between musical achievement and fighting. It's obvious why this would appeal to kids, but it doesn't jibe at all with the no-tolerance, anti-violence environment of the school administration. In a culture where kids are suspended for wielding vaguely gun-shaped pastries, one might think that these branded curricula would avoid references to combat sports. Now, I'm sure there are people out there who will disagree and defend karate as self defense and a study of discipline and inner balance, etc. But please. No kid takes karate to find his chi. It's a fighting sport and we all know it.

That's not to say that I have a problem with karate - quite the opposite. I believe that self defense is a critical part of any person's education, whether they learn how to out wit a bully or clock him in the nose is all a matter of preference. I'm merely annoyed that someone thinks music needs to be partnered with fighting to make it interesting to kids. It seems gratuitous - music is not something we should have to dress up in costume. Music appeals to nearly everyone in its own way; it is part of the human soul. It doesn't need to be equated with The Karate Kid to be relevant to today's youth.

Granted, I have not seen an uptick in Peanut's combative tendencies since he started Recorder Karate. And I'm probably getting my knickers in a twist for nothing. But since we are forced to live in constant fear of violence in schools, and to a great extent the dire consequences that innocent mistakes can have for our children - like bringing a butter knife to class to cut one's birthday cake - I think it's worth pushing back when schools go against their own zero-tolerance policy. Damn it, if kids have to mind how they eat their Pop Tarts, our music programs should be free of martial arts references.

As much as I'm glad that my children are less likely to suffer the kind of bullying that was common during my elementary school years, I miss the days when a good kid could throw a good punch and solve a world of problems, where bullies could get what's coming to them instead of getting hugs.
The Brady Bunch. I miss the Brady Bunch.






Peanut's a black belt in recorder, by the way. Don't mess with him.

On the Road. Again.

Every morning I load my family into our safety rating sweetheart of an SUV, strap the children into their five point harnesses, check all my mirrors, and do the most dangerous thing a driver can do on the highway: drive the speed limit.

It takes a great deal of psychological fortitude to be the slowest car on the road. I had to ease my way into it. I started by setting the cruise control at 65, and have over the course of a year ticked the setting down to 56. And I'm pretty sure people want to murder me. I'm constantly checking the rearview mirror for the enraged driver who's going to plow into me rather than go around. Tractor trailers have, on more than one occasion, flashed their lights to warn me that they have no intention of slowing down. The stream of cars passing me is so dense I often feel more like a parade spectator than a driver. I actually feel pity for the people who get stuck behind me; I want to hang a sign in the back that says, "Sorry! I'm a stubborn safety whore."

I endure all this drama just to set a good example for Peanut, who watches my driving like an anal retentive, bureaucratic hawk. If I break the rules and drive above the speed limit, then all hell breaks loose. Homework won't get done, chores will be ignored, and the tv will mysteriously turn itself on long after I call for screens off. I wish I was one of those parents whose authority was absolute, but I'm the type who leads by example. I'm also incredibly tight fisted and don't want to waste money on gas. It's a horrible combination that's pissing off commuters throughout New Castle County.

Sometimes, when there's a particularly long line of cars stuck behind me, I pretend that I'm starting a movement. The Slow-Down-And-Relax movement. People must be waking up to the fact that speeding causes undue stress and poor gas mileage. I am a leader among the lost, bringing a message of good economy and low blood pressure to the people. Stop rushing through our lives. Make getting there half the fun again. And that sort of thing.

But, within a few miles, I'm reminded that this line of thinking is utter bullshit, and I'm really just annoying someone who left for work two minutes late. So, along with setting a good example for Peanut, I'm teaching him the various ways in which people express road rage. And he sagely reminds me, "Mom, stop yelling back. They can't hear you."

I'm sure the overall message to the kid is a mixed bag of safety and self-righteousness, plus a few colorful insults to use on the playground. This is a prime example of how what we think we're teaching our kids is not at all what they're learning. Peanut can add this to his growing list of "Ways Mom might kill me." At the very least, being the most infuriating person on the road livens up our commute. If we went with the flow of traffic it would just be dull.