When we were already late, but I chose to squeeze in 45 seconds to run the vacuum; which coincidentally, is enough time for both children (under 5 yo) to empty a bottle of baby shampoo onto the carpet in my bedroom. Rage showed up then.
When we were already late, but I chose to squeeze in 45 seconds to run the vacuum; which coincidently, is enough time for both children (under 5 yo) to empty a bottle of baby shampoo onto the carpet in my bedroom. Rage showed up then.
She also showed up that time my youngest hurled her dinner plate to the floor- with a dead-panned look on her face. This was after I excused the cluttered surfaces in the kitchen so I could execute dinner which was already 20 minutes late due to a tantrum by the oldest- and subsequent wetting accident. Cleaning up piss and hot supper all at the same time.
And when I tried to make my bed that day- you know how they love when you throw the sheet out and it floats down to the bed in the bright sunshine… rage was with me again.
Every day accumulates little drip drops into a bucket that eventually spills and floods me. I keep forgetting to try screaming into a pillow.
It is a feeling that is beginning to circle back once every few weeks. I’m afraid to admit it because I’m not sure how normal it is, but when she’s with me I’m paralyzed. I’m stiff. My throat closes. I can’t blink. But there’s no pause button with two small children in a flood. If I separate myself and shut the door, I can still hear them, and feel them flailing on the floor. In fact, they only get worse if I walk away. For me, the idea of my children internalizing Mom walking away feels worse to me. So I force it directly.
I restrain her little, (but strong) flailing body in my arms filled with rage. I hold her so tight. Swaddled. Until she at least stops the screaming. Sometimes I scream too. I know I’m using my physical strength to suppress her, asserting my control over her, and I don’t know if that’s wrong. The only thing worse is what I’ve imagined myself doing when I’m in these fits of rage. The restraint response is what saves me from those terrible visions- they even feel like a fucking fantasy in the moment. What are these thoughts and where do they come from?? Am I a monster? So far, it is the only thing I’ve found that will move us both through it. We both end in tears, first her, then me. We talk about it. We hug each other. We are sorry.