A little hand reaches up to the counter and papers flutter to the floor. While I restack them, a chair is pushed over. Maybe even a plant. Something in me starts to tighten and grow, a tense little ball of fire. Words spill out, but they are useless; they clink to the floor. My preschooler dances around the room, a little sleep-deprived hurricane. Maybe he just needs to pee. I rationalize, drinking in deep breaths, while my stuff hits the floor. My toddler calls out my name. Maybe he’s already on my hip, attached to me like a little koala while I tidy up the mess. But I can’t keep up. That little ball of fire inside starts to build, and suddenly I have two options: scream or shut down.
I’ve done the former, and I hate it. I hate that feeling of loosing control, what Brené Brown calls chandeliering. Like a pressure cooker that builds until it explodes, my anger is left splattered throughout the kitchen, dripping from counters and trickling down walls, and everyone can feel the change in temperature. Through therapy and deep breathing and a lot of breath prayers, I am learning not to react so emotionally to my children’s triggering, or at least not to stuff my feelings until they mushroom, but I still struggle regularly.
Two years in, and if I’m honest, I’m still adjusting to being a mother of two children, to having two tiny humans need me all the time. I once felt pretty proud of myself, back when I was a mother of one child. Other than the sleep, which has always been a problem for us, parenting wasn’t as hard as I’d imagined. I felt like a good and patient mother. I was doing all the gentle things, the positive parenting things. I was learning and using the scripts, and I felt pretty sure of my secure attachment with my first child. Now, with two kids, I feel like I’m barely passing, and that’s pretty difficult for an A-student to swallow.
The worst part is that I know what I should be doing. I’ve done the research; I’ve read the books. But I can’t seem to follow through with the scripts and tools when my brain is on fire. When my kids are hitting each other, when they both need my attention, when they start throwing objects off surfaces or jumping off the couch or biting their sibling. And of course, these things always happen when my arms are covered in food scraps and dish soap, when I’m sitting on the toilet, when I’m chopping vegetables for dinner, or when I’m changing the little one’s diaper. The scripts tell me to remove my child from an off-limits location, to use my hands and not my voice; but they never tell me what to do when my hands are not free. That’s when I feel caged in, when I am faced with the options of freeze or fight or flight. All that repressed anger, lurking inside of me like a wounded dragon, tucked deep in its cave, starts to show its face, starts to breathe out its fire and ice.
Anger in motherhood is real, but it’s not something many mothers talk about. We are more accepting of conversations about postpartum depression, but depression and anxiety and anger are all facets of the same coin. And when we don’t acknowledge it, it just blooms. I am realizing that I’ve been angry a long time—sometimes, I’m not even sure why. I’ve locked it inside, in order to wear a mask of a quiet, gentle spirit, and all that anger has stewed inside, turned to bitterness, and in motherhood, its started to seep out like a slow leak that I can’t patch. Sometimes I’m so overwhelmed, I could weep. Some days I want to scream. Some days, my emotions are just a quiet simmer, and some days they reverberate through me, all whizz and bang until they pop. I think about the words of Paul in Romans: “I don’t really understand myself, for I want to do what is right, but I don’t do it. Instead, I do what I hate.” (Romans 7:15)
My therapist in New York once said that no one leaves childhood unscathed. We all carry traumas from our past; we have all been parented imperfectly, just as we are all, if we are parents, currently parenting imperfectly. I know that. And if I’m honestly looking at myself and my children and my life, I know that the good outweighs the bad. My children are loved and cared for, they feel safe, they have space to express their emotions and interests and desires, and their childhood is generally a happy one. But I am still a life-long perfectionist. I carry the pressure to be perfect, and it cripples me.
I think it’s important we acknowledge that we are all wearing masks. We all have these struggles—some shared, some unique. Most of the folks from my childhood would probably never consider me someone who struggles with anger. Perpetual shyness, maybe, but not anger. I’ve leaned into that descriptor all my life, the quiet one, but it doesn’t serve me to keep wearing the mask. We have to be genuine with one another. This is why we need community, so that we have a safe place to come as we are. This is one of the things I love about the church. Because, in its health, it’s a place to hold us. To offer us grace. To help us find healing. I know lately I’ve written critiques of the church, but it’s only because I love it, because I’ve known its goodness, and I see what it can be.
Whatever you are struggling with, whether it’s anger and bitterness and perfectionism like me, or whether it’s something completely different, I hope you can find rest this week. I am truly grateful for this space, for a place to organize my thoughts and rechannel my emotions into something healthy. Thank you for joining me on the journey.
Jenica
Ordinary Joy
Words of Jubilee
I highly recommend clicking this link and reading the caption. She’s nailing it. Here’s an excerpt:
“Could it be that the most wholesome words we can share are honest ones that lament the lack of compassion, empathy, and peace in the world we so desperately need? Maybe it might make someone less alone to admit our prayers aren't always fluffy blankets but punches in the drywall. Maybe our genuine and honest reflections of humanity can point others to a God that understands.”
So beautifully written. So identifiable. So honest and real. Thank you. Such a gift to moms of young children!
Thank you! I really appreciate that.