Our household has been on edge lately. I know this is on me. It’s always on the mom. I went to parent-teacher interviews recently and heard wonderful tales of peaceful kindness and voluntary helpfulness along with a dash of gregarious joy. It came as no surprise and of course I was pleased but there was also a part of me that felt sad and confused as, recently, this is not the child I see.
After being scolded for subjecting them to carpooling and maligned for not having the right snack, I asked what it is about the classroom that fills someone with the desire to be helpful and happy and kind.
“My teacher is calm,” said the child. “And she doesn’t get frustrated.”
Self-defence. Ego. It all gets fired up. Well, I say, I wouldn’t get frustrated if every time I ask you to help, you didn’t roll your eyes and make it seem like I’m ruining your life. And I would probably be more calm if you didn’t yell at me all the time. Harumph.
That’s what all the parenting books and podcasts tell you to say, right? Blame the kid. My reaction is your fault.
Seriously, though, how can it be on me to create this zen garden of tranquility? By that I mean both how can it be one person’s job to diffuse nuclear bombs on a daily basis but also literally how can it be ME, specifically. Does the universe not know how unqualified I am for this job??
Case-in-point: the other day, in our edgy house, one child was in the beginning stages of an emotional tornado of a different sort. This one does frustration, anxiety and negative self-talk around not knowing what to do next. If I say put your dishes in the dishwasher but there’s still food in the dish, there is a meltdown over the quandary of what to do with the leftover food. The pressure of what seems like small-scale problem solving is often too much to handle.
I decide to try meditation. We sit down on the couch and load up the app (I finally paid for a year of calm-the-f-down options). Immediately, the non-meditating child starts telling us we’re doing it wrong, literally 12 seconds into it. Nevermind the irony that someone who’s yelling is vying for recognition as the expert on calming down. I point this out.
FINE. Stomping up the stairs.
“Please take your backpack with you,” I add.
“WHY? GIVE ME A REASON! BECAUSE YOU’RE THE BOSS??”
“Sure. If that helps.”
More stomping. More screaming. Many words of dissatisfaction. If my parenting were subject to a yelp review, I’d be at zero stars with this customer.
So there we are. Me sitting on the couch with one kid listening to this pleasant lady tells us to count belly breaths while the other kid gives us a sound bath of vitriol.
“We are TRY-ING to MED-I-TATE!” I yell.
It’s all too much. We go our separate ways to decompress.
Ten minutes later, they’re happily playing together in the basement while I chop the decade’s 9000th apple. My own form of meditation. If I ever get around to writing a screenplay about these interludes, it’s going to be a real knee-slapper.
**UPDATE**
Maybe seems weird to update something I never actually posted, but whatevs. First of all, Mercury was in retrograde. Say what you will about this notion, but I have often noticed strange happenings during these times. Kids go wonky. Technology follows suit. Problem is, it usually takes me until three days before it’s over to recognize the correlation. Believe you me, I will be marking it on the calendar from now on.
Of course, that begs several questions. How is it I was able to find more compassion for the insanity once I decide a tiny planet was partially involved? Why couldn’t I have found compassion for whatever else may have been at play: fatigue, growth, boredom, anxiety, the need to get outside? Probably because I had covered those bases and it didn’t made one lick of a difference.
Also, strangely, once I knew it was over, I felt more empowered to take control of the household mojo and make a move towards peace. We talked about feelings. We reinstated the Orange Rhino concept to help us stop yelling at each other.
Oh. And I put a moratorium on devices until civility was restored. 😬