Showing posts with label anger. Show all posts
Showing posts with label anger. Show all posts

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

It's a Mad, Mad World

I've been contemplating for a few days now the various posts about anger, including Parenting.com's original article about a survey of 1,000 "representative" moms at MomConnection, Lisa Belkin then addressed the survey in "Are All Moms Mad at Dad?" setting off a barrage of comments, with a follow-up about asking for help. The original survey, summarized by Martha Brockenbrough at Parenting.com, basically found that


We love our husbands -- but we're mad that we spend more mental energy on the
details of parenting. We're mad that having children has turned our lives upside
down much more than theirs. We're mad that these guys, who can manage businesses or keep track of thousands of pieces of sports trivia, can be clueless when it comes to what our kids are eating and what supplies they need for school. And
more than anything else, we're mad that they get more time to themselves than we
do.



What is going on here? There have been several ideas floated by commentors: men are bad boys, women are whiny perfectionists, the anger is not as widespread as the survey seems to indicate, and motherhood is hard and does generate intense emotions. I didn't read all the comments on Belkin's original post so I don't know if anyone questioned the gendered basis of this survey. Are co-parents mad at other co-parents, i.e. are all mommies mad at mamas?

I have had my moments of being mad, furious, angry and full of rage from the depth of my soul about both big issues and little issues since we had kids. A kind of anger that surprised me in its ferocity, its unfamiliarity, its irrationality, its power. Was I actually mad at Mama? Sometimes. About dumb stuff, about all the stuff the survey participants noted--because she didn't notice things that needed to be done, because sometimes she made more work for me, because sometimes I envied her "free time" at work. But as one commentor noticed, I was often just mad in general and she was the first adult to get in my way, since I had the good sense not to be mad at the kids. And I was often more mad when I was more tired. Because I was frustrated, stuck, unable to get done what I wanted done, unable to let go, feeling incompetent, feeling overwhelmed, feeling unsure, feeling inferior, feeling alone. Even if I were one of two moms, I was still the only one at home. Now that the kids are older, I'm not as mad as I was, say, before they were 2, just as the survey found. Often the rage would come on and then dissipate quickly, as if a bubble had burst, as if I almost needed to get that mad to find some emotional release. I do that with crying but had never done it with anger before.

I don't think it's a gender thing, though the survey posited it that way and all the commentors I read thought of it in those terms. Because, of course, those are the majority of parenting pairs. I think the source of the anger is not a control/responsibility/power issue but actually one of communication in the face of isolation and disengagement. In the traditional parenting paradigm (does such a thing actually exist? Yep, I grew up in one, but what follows is a generic, even exagerated, depiction of the system and not exactly how it was in my family), Father goes to work while Mother stays home with the children. Mother takes care of the house, volunteers, plays bridge, etc while the kids are at school and Father is at work. After school, Mother provides transportation, snacks, homework assistance, and whatever else is needed. Then at night, she continues in her provider role giving everyone dinner and then gets the children in bed while Father relaxes. On weekends, there might be family time and Father might catch up on his own household chores. In this paradigm, which actually isn't too far from my own life now except "Father" is a Mama and I don't play bridge, Mother is in charge of house and kids because she is at home and with them the most. If Mother is exhausted and overwhelmed by the very real challenges and burdens of these duties, it is mainly because she feels isolated and alone, with no help, unable to do for herself. If Father becomes estranged from the family and operation of the household, it is mainly because the family and house function with or without his presence, which then would seem to give him permission to stay separate and distant (and it might even seem easier than disrupting the flow of things) This is the challenge: regardless of gender, both parents must work to stay involved and engaged with themselves, each other, and the family.

But, Mama grew up in a totally different family structure. Her parents both worked. And on days when her mother was teaching nights at the university, her father was in charge of dinner and homework and tuck-ins. Her parents split the parental responsibilities because no one parent was home the majority of the time. At least in Mama's family's situation, the gendered assumptions about who did what did not exist--no one assumed that Ma would be responsibile for more house and child issues than Gong just because she was a woman. I don't know how that happened but know they must have had strong communication skills to keep the system running. In the end, it's those communication skills that probably help keep the anger at bay.

Mama and I long ago decided that I was "head mommy in charge." While we were equal co-parents, in the end, for the simple reason that I would be spending more time with them, I was in charge. I got to delegate tasks, make major decisions in the event that we couldn't discuss (or agree), be in charge of their day-to-day routines, care, and discipline. By extension, because I was physically at home more, I was in charge of what one commentor called the "Control Journal," our own personal list of what needed to be done when. At first, I balked at the responsibility, not sure I was capable or up to the task. This was probably when all the anger peeked. But as with most aspects of motherhood, I've settled into my position and don't get as angry anymore. And I'm much better at asking Mama to add to her list of chores (like all the laundry and the garbage, which she does without needing to be reminded), help me when I fall behind, or whatever else we the family might need. And she's much better at not taking that personally. It only makes sense (for us)--why put the parent who is not at home as much in charge of the same, or more, number of things? That's not to say that SAHM-ness is one empty schedule able to be filled with housework and errands--of course not: I work a full day just like Mama does, but on the off chance I can squeeze in some household or child-oriented stuff, I do. Because I'm there. But Mama has made just as many phone calls to doctors and researched just as many, if not more, issues on the net because she can. It just seemed more efficient for us to divide things up. And has worked, with some modifications, thus far.

Is she angry at me? Of course there have been times. When I was whiny. When I was picky. When I was bossy. When I didn't let her know that I appreciated what she contributed. When we didn't communicate well. When she was experiencing her own unexplainable tidal rage. I mean, wasn't I at home all the time? Didn't I have a babysitter so I could have "free time?" Why wasn't I using that free time better? And did I really need to do things the way I did? Luckily, like mine, her anger ebbs and flows and has diminished in its strength.

But reading these articles reminds me of the constant presence of more emotion, yes more negative emotions, than before children. And each article reminds me of the real dangers of unresolved anger. Besides the damage done to moms, their partners, and their families emotionally,

You can also weaken your heart, harden your arteries, raise your cholesterol,
damage your kidneys and liver, and put yourself at risk for depression or
anxiety. It's no wonder that some scientists consider chronic anger more likely
to kill you prematurely than smoking or obesity.


But don't get mad about that . . . go talk to your co-parent.

Friday, January 16, 2009

On Anger, Part 3

Having spent some time this week recalling my classical education, I should have remembered one of the pervasive themes in Greek literature: hubris.

After my self-congratulatory and -celebratory post on anger management this morning, our afternoon completely dissolved into a study in frustration and anger. And I'm going to blame it all on computer games. After rest time, a snack, and some art time when they drew suns and smiley faces, the kids wanted to play computer games. Now, I don't particularly enjoy playing computer games but I relented because they seemed so excited, though I had told myself that I really would make computer games Mama's preserve.

I should stick to my decisions. The children were quickly frustrated by games they didn't understand and couldn't play, and, even though I was sitting right there, I am not fluent in computer game structures and strategies and couldn't help much. That's right Dr. Mommy Hungry was defeated by Diego. Or by systems limitations: several games required plug-ins and I couldn't remember the administrator password on my computer, not being its usual administrator. This went on longer than I ever should have let it, even after I said they could only play the Caillou games we all knew how to play. That's when odd things would happen, like they would suddenly change webpages (I learned later this was a quirk if they hit the wrong mouse button; Mama worked tonight to disable it). They'd have to start their game/turn all over again, severely trying the patience of both the waiting child and me. I finally ended it, to tears all around, realizing that no one was having a good time and it was just getting worse. I apologized for getting angry at the computer explaining that I didn't like that I couldn't help them to have fun. I should've apologized for not following my mommy instincts and not turning on the damned games in the first place. Strike one.

So, we went in the kitchen to cook dinner and Bud was helping me scramble eggs. Sis decided she wanted to move her chair back to the table, would I give her a "ride?" No. I needed to watch Bud cook over the hot skillet. But had I said no too sharply? Too loudly? More tears, and cries of "I want Gommie." Oooh, that hurt. Strike two. Even though I explained my reasons for saying no--the ones of health and safety--it didn't heal her hurt or mine (since I felt mean, even if justified).

We downed dinner unhappily, but had some bright moments afterwards talking about our trip to the Met tomorrow, and then headed up to bed, sans Mama who was running late from a meeting. More chaos, more anger. When they refused to get dressed and wouldn't even hear my directions over their rambunctiousness, I just closed the door to their room, which they can't open by themselves from the inside, and left them there. Quiet commenced and then cries from Bud: "Mommy, I got dressed. Why did you leave?"

Strike three, Mommy's out.

On Anger, Part 2

I had just gotten off the phone with a friend from Chicago, gotten the kids breakfast, and dashed into the other room to read the headlines of the NYTimes. As I scanned the article on the "Miracle on the Hudson," I heard this very familiar "drop-drop-drop" from the kitchen. I looked in to see a sea of Cheerios (oops, is that brand-name reference number two in three sentences? Ouch, I didn't know I did that) and raisins on the floor. Three-and-a-half year olds don't need to test gravity; they passed that developmental milestone (with great creativity and determination) way back.

But I didn't lose my cool. Actually, I'm not even sure I was angry, so much as annoyed and a little amused that they could make such a mess in so short a time, perhaps even a little guilty that I had been reading the paper in those moments instead of watching them eat. But I had to muster some mommy outrage and calmly discipline them for making a mess and wasting food, all the while I was thinking of the Motherlode post on anger yesterday. So, there was no yelling just an immediate end to breakfast, the insistence that they help clean it up, and then banishment to the living room where they could await our "time in" while I finished up. By then, they were both crying, mainly because they still wanted to play and eat. It was very much the Gone with the Wind/Scarlett O'Hara "the thief who was sorry he got caught but not at all sorry he stole" routine. But we discussed the whole incident, got dressed for our playgroup, and got out the door. No apologies necessary. What a relief!

-=-=-=-=-

Oh, and in the off-chance she comes back, a "hello and thanks" to Lisa Belkin, author of Motherlode, for her visit and comment on my blog yesterday. I'm very glad my kiddos are too young to read this "live" or as it happens, though I keep them, and the future, in mind when I write (as this is in part my virtual scrapbook for them). But I have already embarrassed my mom (who lives faraway and is, with other distant family and friends, my main audience) any number of times! I guess children always have that ability, even grown ones.

Thursday, January 15, 2009

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.