Sigh. Here I am, that mom tonight. I couldn’t even manage to tuck my oldest into bed. The thought of him starting school tomorrow, all on his own, brought tears to my eyes. So, I swapped bedtime duties with his dad.
Normally, these types of posts are the ones I scroll past—those moms lamenting over their firstborns heading off to school. I used to think, “Not me,” and “If only they could let go!” But here I am, hiding out in my daughter’s room while his dad puts him to bed, an emotional wreck. You see, he was my first teacher. Among all our children, he has been with me through my parenting milestones—our shared laughter, tears, and battles against some tough challenges.
I grew up in a turbulent household. I can say that now without trembling, free from the anxiety that once gripped me. I endured “rage cleaning” at its peak, spending countless hours ensuring our home was spotless before my mother returned, hoping that would prevent an explosion of anger.
Yelling often preceded smacks or slaps, and even now, the sound of drawers being yanked open triggers memories of where the wooden spoons were kept and how they were used. I remember the times I had to lock myself in the bathroom just to escape her rage, pounding on the other side of the door. I was determined not to inherit those traits, convinced I would be a perfect parent.
As I stand beside his bed, I reflect on his first smiles, his first words, and also my own first moments of anger—the little things that ignited my inner “fire.” I was shocked by those emotions, feeling a wave of nausea wash over me, followed by hours of tears.
I can honestly say my anger never reached the same levels as my mother’s. I never crossed that line into abuse. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t feel it lurking within me, eager to escape. There were countless times when I locked myself in the bathroom as an adult to keep from unleashing that anger on anyone.
Where did this turmoil come from? I knew the answer and felt deep shame. These aren’t the kinds of stories shared over coffee during playdates—“Did I mention the first time I screamed into a pillow to avoid lashing out at my child?” Probably not. Where there’s sickness, negativity thrives. I was supposed to be better.
It hasn’t been easy. It still isn’t. But I chose a different path. My situation differs greatly from my mother’s; I have a supportive partner and friends who stepped in. More importantly, I made a conscious choice. I chose my child over pride, over the instinct to handle everything alone, and over the darkness within me. I refused to raise a child in fear, the way I had been raised—a child who flinched at every sudden movement, worrying about their parent’s unpredictable reactions. I wouldn’t, and thankfully haven’t, created a fearful environment like the one I experienced growing up.
I’ve worked diligently to reach this point with my now 6-year-old. My other children have seen nothing more than my occasional raised voice. They’ve never witnessed my tears as I battled those inner demons. With the wisdom I gained from my insightful counselor and the support of my husband, I’ve learned to breathe deeply. I sing instead of shout, and I create small mantras I repeat until I feel calm. Most importantly, I’ve confronted the fear that transformed into anger over the years. Once I addressed that, I could truly see clearly, as Johnny Nash would say. Small annoyances may arise, but they no longer ignite uncontrollable rage.
So, you can understand my tears. He has been my mirror, my reflection, and sometimes my mini-me with his vibrant, impulsive spirit. He has also been my teacher. I thought I had dealt with my childhood nightmares. Parenthood has a way of dragging those buried demons back into the light, often in the form of the child you nurtured for nine months.
So I cry, grateful for the gift he’s provided me, while guilt still lingers in the pit of my stomach. I know it may never fully go away. I’m not blind to my struggles with anger and the mistakes I’ve made, but I’m hopeful that we’ve created countless joyful memories that far outweigh the darker moments I fought through.
I speak openly and honestly about my anger because I refuse to let it fester in silence. Where negativity thrives, bad things follow. I’ve had my share of those bad experiences, and I hope to shed light on them for others who may feel the same. If we don’t address these issues during our playdates or mom gatherings, when will we? The women who listen to my “anger confessions” are the ones I rely on; they keep me accountable.
If we remain silent about this anger, we risk raising another generation that walks on eggshells, living in constant fear. And I refuse to let that happen.
Summary
This heartfelt post reflects on a mother’s journey to break the cycle of parental frustration rooted in her childhood experiences. As she navigates her emotions, she chooses to create a nurturing environment for her children instead of mirroring the fear she endured. By sharing her struggles openly, she hopes to encourage others to confront their own challenges and foster healthier relationships with their children.