An observation from this morning. A painful one.
what happens when you're an angry mother
Jake makes a missile of his plastic syringe, throwing it at me from the top of the stairs. I look up and see. His face full of hurt. Something inside me says, let him be, enough yelling. But an old voice, familiar and strong, shouts in two voices. “That’s it, no more syringes for you!” (out loud) and “you have to teach him a lesson” (inside my head). And though I stomp up the stairs and throw the syringe in the sink, I feel small for being the person I hate. Jake watches me and puts his fingers in his mouth. His face sets in determination. He does not want to do as I say. For a moment, I want to make him, knowing I can make him. Then I look at him with the tiny scratch on his forehead and see in his eyes how I tower over him with my angry face. I feel punched by shame and drop down to my knees. I want to climb into him, making his face my face, his determination my determination. Make my shame her shame. Wishing I’d had the power to turn off her angry face. I say sorry to my son and we hug. I kiss the scratch on his forehead. He says, “I sorry shouting too Mummy.” I hold him close. “You have nothing to be sorry for Jake. Nothing. This isn’t your fault.” But he says sorry again. And I cry, wondering what has been done.
Damn this hurts.