On Anger

Great post over at Motherlode today by both Belkin and her guest writer, on getting angry at kids. And the comments, as usual, are as enlightening (or, more appropriately, entertaining) as the essay.

But more than the "I-yelled-and-the-kids-were-shocked-and-it-affected-us-all-and-I-apologized" moral of the story (which I think most of us have experienced), I appreciated Belkin's preface:

We rarely talk about the anger of being a parent. We know the lurking
danger — of anger turning physical, or crossing a line. That means we also don’t
talk about the fact that we all lose it. Or the corollary fact that sometimes
anger works.

When all else fails, a few claps of oral thunder certainly show that Mom or
Dad has had it, that humans can be pushed just so far, and this is what it looks
like when you’ve pushed them too much.

I have friends whose parents really never yelled. Those same friends
were terrified at their first fight with their own spouse, or their first anger
at their own children; they were certain the marriage was over and the kids
would be taken away. There is a lesson learned by some yelling (not abusing or
berating, or belittling, but emoting; not constantly, but sometimes): we get
mad, we make up, we still love each other.

Even though my mom specifically argued with my dad in front of us so that we would know that people fight and also made a point of fighting "fair" (and sending "I" messages), I am not particularly comfortable with anger, confrontation, or fighting. I definitely remember being scared of arguing with Mama in our first few years together, of being afraid that conflict would mean the relationship was sound. But even after we became comfortable with our methods of conflict resolution (which, I don't think, ever involved yelling), we still never fought much. We're just not fighters. And we were too co-dependent for that like any good, young, new, stereotypical lesbian couple.

It has, in fact, been parenting that has given us advanced training in arguing and disagreeing, mainly because we were so exhausted the first few years, had too much to do, and couldn't always figure out the best ways to do it. See, we come from families with extremely divergent family and parenting styles and that is just hardwired in each of us to the point that you forget it's a choice and that there are other ways to do things. But we are working through most of that, with no yelling.

But have I had to apologize to the kids for losing my cool, just like the guest blogger? You bet. Has Mama? Of course. Was I sorry? Yes. Will they remember? No telling. As my mom has said, her memories (and regrets) probably don't align with my memories and you can just never know (for instance, apparently she vividly remembers the one time she slapped me . . . and, while I know it happened, it just wasn't traumatic for me and I couldn't even tell you the circumstances. She, however, apparently cried in her room most of the rest of the night. See, Mom, it's okay). There was a poem I can't find that I read the first year or so of having the kids, probably in Mothering, maybe not. In the poem, the mom goes into the nursery, for she has an infant, and apologizes to the sleeping baby for not being the kind of mom she wanted to be that day. But in the poem, in the blog, in life, the apology is the key. Especially when moms are trying so hard to get it right.