I am a monster. I feel prickly and ugly and mean. I yelled at my baby today, and I made her cry. I cried, too. Ugh. I don’t want to write about it, but I need to. I need to unpack and examine the pieces of the broken thing so that I can put it back together in a sturdier way.
My Lucy is, I think we would say, “spirited.” She is unlike me in so many ways. She is confident, outgoing, curious, questioning, physical, and fearless. I love that she is so strong, but it scares me, too. I expect her to do what I ask and to listen when I tell her, “No.” When she doesn’t, when she laughs instead and continues climbing on chairs or eating paper or running away from me, I don’t know what to do. If I snatch her up and try to restrain her, she arches and squirms and practically foams at the mouth, and I fear I will drop her. I want her to learn to communicate and follow directions, not to use force to get what she wants. But I also have to keep her safe; from the beautiful, scary world and from her bold, reckless self.
Today it was the recycling bin. She followed me into the laundry room, where we keep the garbage and recycling. I was changing the wash and looked over to see her picking up an empty beer bottle. “Lucy, no,” I said firmly. “Put it down.” She looked at me and shook her head and said, “No-no,” with her mischievous smile and bright eyes, then lifted it toward her mouth. “NO!” I yelled, in big, red, angry letters. And, in a rage fueled by insecurity, I yanked the bottle from her hand, slammed it down, steered her out of the room, and closed myself in. From the other side of the door, I heard her start to cry in shaky, heaving sobs. I started the washing machine, then stepped out, tears in my own eyes, and gathered her up, shushing and soothing and wiping wet cheeks and apologizing.
I try to stay calm, to use words and actions to teach her limits and expectations, to show her what I mean. I try. But I have a temper that is hotter than I like to admit, and I get so frustrated when she won’t do what I say. I take it personally, as if this 16-month-old baby is deliberately trying to make me mad. (Well, maybe she is because she thinks it’s interesting when I get red in the face and make loud noises.) So I end up grabbing things away from her, picking her up, and removing her, kicking and screaming, from the scene. And then I feel awful and incompetent and too guilty to function for several hours afterward. It is not good. I worry that I am not the best person to be with her all day, every day. I worry that I am going to raise her to be completely out of control, that her teachers will talk about her in the staff room and she’ll need a behavior plan at school. I worry that she’ll be scared of me because I yelled at her or held her too tightly.
Usually, as was the case today, after the tears there are snuggles and stories and a nap. The nap fixes a lot. Lucy gets the rest she needs, rest that is hard to come by for a child who never stops moving. And I get time and space to myself, to take care of what needs tending most–whether it be housework or the emotional beast that lurks in the space that connects my heart and soul and mind. When she wakes up, we are happy to see each other. She buries her face in my neck and lets me hold her for a long time.
I am not a monster, not really. I know that. I’m just a mama who has no clue what she’s doing–and yet feels like she should be doing it better. I’m good at everything, so I should be good at this gig, too. But this is not a gig, and it’s not about doing it right. I’m not doing it for reward or recognition or even for my own satisfaction. Being Lucy’s mother is my life. It is who I am now. I love her more than myself, more than fresh air and water and stars. I hope that is what matters most. I will learn to be more patient and less uptight, to trust myself as a parent, to find creative and loving ways to teach and discipline. I will try not to yell. Whether or not it harms her, I hate the way it makes me feel.
I will forgive myself, and I will keep trying. I know that she will, too.
pruneandpear 