No matter how quietly I sneak off or how far away they might be, some scatological sixth sense causes my children to appear upon the bathroom threshold the second I drop trou.
Locking the door doesn’t help. They just talk through it.
“Mommy, we’re making a classroom in your bedroom!” my youngest burbled as I attempted to have a private moment. “We need chairs!” Cheeks flushed and blond hair in a charming disarray, his appearance backed up the thuds and happy squeals I’d been hearing upstairs over the past ten minutes. Nevertheless I had to choke back the urge to yell at him; not because of the interruption of my ablutions (I abandoned that battle long ago) but because as I finished washing my hands I found once again that all the towels had been conveniently stored in a damp heap on the floor.
“Why can’t you ever hang these up after you’re done drying your hands!” It almost slipped out, a scowling rush of mean-spirited words that would have taken the smile off his face as fast as a slap.
I couldn’t, even though similar phrases run through my head all day long. I couldn’t because similar phrases run through my head all day long — and I know how they got there. It’s impossible, I’ve decided, to muzzle entirely the endless voice of criticism that speaks to me all day long.
It tells me while I’m writing that I should be working on websites. It tells me while I’m working on websites that I should be playing with my children. While I’m playing I should be folding laundry. While folding I should be cooking. While cooking, doing home repairs. While peeing, making doctor’s appointments. While bathing, bathing faster. While falling into bed, working more. And at every moment it says I’m not good enough; that I’m a fake, a fraud, a failure.
Given enough time the voice of the parent turns into the voice of the friend, the lover, the boss, the spouse. It turns into the most fervent cheerleader or the harshest critic, and in each case it supplies the tone for every other interaction to come.
Another day I would have shrieked at my son about the towels, but on that day the medicine was working correctly or I’d gotten enough sleep or sufficient orgasms, or perhaps the gods of motherhood were happy with my sacrifices and decided on a whim to give me the energy to do better. “You need chairs?” I asked, and handed him a damp towel at the same time. “We can get you a chair just as soon as you hang this up!”
He did, and we did, and for one more day I kept from passing on that critical voice to him.
Not really sure what I can say to this, other than thank you for writing it.
wow… we must have a party line going or something. I hear the very same things and similarly thematic things as well. But the “fake fraud and failure” are right out of my head.
Good for you to tame the beast today.
Yes. I can do x as soon as you do y. This is said 100 times a day, at least.
You are a fantastic mother. And prove it all the time.
peace…
well written. well handled. yay you!!!! :)
Oh yeah, those damned voices.. they dog me too. I think you handled that very well. Wishing you well in your battle against the voices tomorrow and the next day.. such is the day to day battle of a parent.
Reading this makes me both sad and happy at the same time. I’m happy for you, and for myself, for I also have those moments. And I’m sad, because I think far too often I fail to quell the voice and the words come right out of my mouth before I can shove them back in. I snap, or growl, or “Why can’t you ever remember to x?”
And then I ask myself, too, at what age can children reasonably be expected to remember certain things? Certainly it’s different for every child. My oldest daughter, who had ADD, has to be reminded probably 20 times on average before she remembers to do something on her own. My son (who is two years younger than her) remembers things, on average, after about the 5th time. My oldest still doesn’t remember to flush the toilet about 50% of the time (at least at home, I’m not sure about when she’s out), but my son remembers 99.99% of the time. My oldest will be 10 years old in June. I just don’t get it.
I honestly feel like a major part of the problems I see in the kids I work with at the high school is that they are not expected to do anything for themselves at home. I’m sure that they do things like flush the toilet, but I was doing my own laundry by the time I was in high school, and I was expected to keep the common area of my parents’ house in decent shape and free of my clutter. I helped out with cleaning house on weekends. But it’s like parents have taken the guilt of not being able to spend time with their kids like they want to and translated it into doing everything for them to try and make up for it. I could boil water and cook simple meals by the time I was in high school. One kid I worked with one day told a story that she thought was funny about how she almost burned down the house trying to boil water. She’s 16! My 9 year old can boil water (with supervision) and make ramen noodles or macaroni and cheese.
And with that, I’ll end my rant and self-recriminations.
That’s why I love your blog. It brings out the Psychology major in me and pokes me in the brain, and in the heart. And it reminds me that I’m not alone in making mistakes as a single mother. And that not everything I do is going to turn out wrong or cause my kids to grow up and hate me (I hope!)
Yes Yes Yes. Just yes. And, well, this… a link in the commonalities of motherhood. Not only from human to human, but from species to species. Take the Mama canine that snaps at her pup because he just wont leave her teat alone. Or the Mama lioness who swats her cub because she has climbed over her head two times too many. But also, the Mama bear who would attack a mountain lion to ensure the safety of her cubs at the risk of her own life, just as you or I or most any human mother would.
Before I became a mother, I looked back on my childhood and distinctly decided that I would NOT make the same ‘mistakes’ my own parents had. And then, seemingly with the birth of my first child, all notions of what I would be as a mother went out the window. Because, you see, parents are human. Humans are not perfect. Mistakes are made…were made. However, I turned out pretty well. So maybe, those mistakes weren’t so awful. Perhaps they got more right than wrong. And those mistakes I was sure NOT to repeat, well, I may not have repeated those, but I have gone on to make my own errors. I do know that I get more right than wrong. How do I know? Because my children are happy, and they know how to love and how to be loved. They do good and sweet things…a reflection of myself. So, when I find it difficult to like me, I look at the mirror that is my children, and I am able to find beauty.
So let the voice continue to speak, so that you may see ways of improvement and also the beauty of what REALLY is. The voice is human, too…and she can make mistakes as well.
carolynn
I’m not a mother, but I just wanted to say that your article today, and then followed by some of these answering fans, has almost brought me to tears. Not of sadness…. but i’m not sure what the emotion is.
Thank you to aag and her thoughtful commenters for giving me something to think about today.
It feels good when the Universe finally conspires to let you be the parent you really want to be, doesn’t it? I find it helps to try to hold on to that feeling when the irritation threatens to escape. I wish it worked more often.
It’s not just you. It’s modern times. Or maybe the human condition.
I have a cartoon from the New Yorker.
First panel: a man working at his computer.
In his thought balloon, he sees himself playing golf.
Second panel: the man playing golf.
In his thought balloon, he sees himself having sex.
Third panel: the man having sex.
In his thought balloon, he sees himself working at his computer.
I clipped and saved the cartoon.
Maybe I should frame it…