*Sigh.* Here I am, that mom tonight. I couldn’t bear to tuck my oldest into bed. The thought of him heading off to school all day without me brought tears to my eyes. So, I switched bedtime duties with his dad.
Normally, I scroll past those posts of moms weeping over their firstborns starting school, thinking, “Not me,” and “If only they could let go!” But here I am, hiding out in my daughter’s room while my husband reads him a story because I’m an emotional mess. You see, he’s my first teacher. Of all my kids, he’s the one who has been there for all my parenting milestones. We’ve shared laughter, tears, and faced some pretty tough challenges together.
I grew up in a chaotic household. I can say that now without the anxiety that used to accompany those words, without the fear of my mother’s unpredictable mood swings that left me constantly on edge. I remember “rage cleaning” at its worst, frantically tidying the house before she came home, hoping that a spotless environment would prevent her from erupting.
Yelling was often followed by slaps or hits, and to this day, the sound of drawers slamming open when someone is angry sends me back to memories of where we kept those wooden spoons and how they were used. I often locked myself in the bathroom just to escape her fury, and those memories are hard to shake. I was determined not to inherit those traits; I wanted to be the perfect mom for my kids.
As I stand by my son’s bed, I reflect on his first smiles, giggles, and words. But I also think back to my own first moments of rage—over the tiniest things he did that ignited a fire in me. I was startled by the emotion bubbling up so intensely that I felt nauseous. I cried for hours afterward.
Honestly, while I can say I never let that rage consume me the way it did my mother, it still lurked deep inside, waiting to pounce. Countless times, I’d find myself retreating to the bathroom just to ensure I wouldn’t lash out and hurt anyone.
Where did this anger come from? I knew the source and felt a deep sense of shame. These aren’t the stories you share at playdates—“Oh, did I tell you about the first time I had to scream into a pillow to avoid snapping at my kid?” Nope, that’s a conversation killer. Where anger festers, trouble follows. I was supposed to be better than that.
It hasn’t been easy—nor is it now. But I chose a different path. My circumstances are not the same as my mother’s. I have a supportive partner and friends who step in when needed. More importantly, I made a choice: I chose my child over my pride and that inner voice that said, “I can handle this alone.” I refused to raise my child in fear, the way I had been raised, where every movement was met with apprehension.
I’ve worked tirelessly to create a safe and nurturing environment for my now 6-year-old. His siblings have only experienced the occasional slamming door or raised voice, never witnessing the tears I’ve shed over my internal battles. Thanks to the tools I gained from my wise counselor and my loving husband, I don’t let rage control me anymore. I breathe deeply, sing instead of shout, and repeat calming mantras until I’m almost hoarse. Most importantly, I faced the fear that had transformed over the years into anger. Once I confronted it, I found clarity; small annoyances no longer led to fury.
So, you can understand why I find myself weeping tonight. My son has been a mirror, reflecting both my struggles and my joys, often resembling my younger self with his vibrant and impulsive spirit. He’s also been my teacher. I thought I had dealt with the nightmares of my childhood, but parenthood has a funny way of unearthing those buried demons and throwing them right back in your face.
As I sit here, grateful for the lessons he’s taught me, I also feel that familiar guilt in the pit of my stomach—an unwelcome companion that may never fully leave. I know I’ve stumbled and let anger slip through, but I’m hopeful the joyful memories we’ve created far outweigh the darker moments.
I speak openly about my struggles with anger because I refuse to let that darkness remain unaddressed. If we avoid these conversations at playdates and mom gatherings, when will we ever address them? The women who listen to my “anger confessions” are the ones who keep me grounded and accountable. If we don’t talk about anger, we risk raising another generation of kids who live in fear. And I refuse to do that.
This article was originally published on September 9, 2016.
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Summary:
In this reflective piece, a mother grapples with her childhood experiences of anger and abuse as she navigates parenting her firstborn. Despite her initial fears of replicating her mother’s rage, she chooses to break the cycle by confronting her emotions and fostering a nurturing environment for her children. By sharing her journey and struggles, she encourages open dialogue among mothers, emphasizing the importance of addressing anger to prevent raising fearful children.