Sigh. Here I am, that mom tonight. I found myself unable to tuck my oldest into bed. The thought of him embarking on his first day of school tomorrow brought tears to my eyes. So, I let his dad take over the bedtime routine.
Usually, I scroll past posts from moms who tear up as their firstborns head off to school, thinking, “Not me!” and “If only those moms would chill out!” But tonight, I’m hiding in my daughter’s room while my husband reads him a bedtime story because I’m an emotional mess. You see, he’s my first teacher. Out of all my children, he’s the one who’s been through every milestone with me. We’ve shared laughter, tears, and some intense struggles that have tested us both.
I grew up in a chaotic household. I can now say that without trembling in fear, the way I used to. My mother’s unpredictable outbursts made my childhood feel like a continuous tightrope walk. “Rage cleaning” was her specialty, and I spent hours ensuring the house was spotless before she returned home, praying it would prevent a volcanic eruption of fury.
Yelling often came hand-in-hand with smacks or slaps, and even today, the sound of drawers slamming triggers memories of where the wooden spoons were kept and how they were wielded. I can’t forget the countless times I locked myself in the bathroom, hoping to escape her wrath. I was determined not to inherit her tempestuous nature; I wanted to be the perfect parent.
As I stand beside my son’s bed, I reminisce about his first giggles, his first words, and yes, my first moments of rage. It’s astonishing how a tiny infraction could ignite an emotional volcano inside me, leaving me stunned and, quite frankly, nauseous afterward. I can honestly say I never crossed the line into abuse like my mother did. But that doesn’t mean the anger wasn’t lurking within me, ready to pounce like a cat.
I can’t count how many times I’ve found myself retreating to the bathroom, just to ensure I wouldn’t say or do something hurtful. Where did this darkness come from? I knew its origin and felt disgusted with myself. These aren’t the types of stories that come up during casual playdates — “Did I mention the first time I had to scream into a pillow to keep from losing my cool?” Nope, that’s not typically a conversation starter.
It’s been a challenging journey, and it still is. But I chose a different path. My situation is unlike my mother’s — I have a supportive husband and friends who step in when needed. More importantly, I made a conscious decision. I chose my child over pride, over the voice that insisted, “I can handle this alone,” and over the sickness I refused to perpetuate. I was determined not to raise a child in fear, like I had been raised. My goal was to foster an environment free from anxiety and tension.
I’ve worked tirelessly to reach this point with my now 6-year-old. His siblings have only experienced my occasional door slams or raised voices. They’ve been spared the sight of me crying over my inner demons. Thanks to the strength and tools I gained from my wise counselor and my supportive husband, I’ve managed to overcome my rage. I breathe deeply, I sing instead of shout, and I create little mantras that I repeat until they are ingrained in my being. Most importantly, I confronted the fear that morphed into anger. Once I faced it, I could, as Johnny Nash put it, see clearly. Minor annoyances still happen, but they no longer escalate into rage.
So you can understand why I find myself weeping. My son has been my mirror, reflecting back to me my own struggles, while also being my guide. I thought I had laid to rest the nightmares of my past, but parenting has a funny way of unearthing old demons, often in the most unexpected ways.
As I cry, I feel gratitude for the lessons he’s taught me, while also battling the guilt that lingers in my gut. I suspect that guilt will always be a part of me. I acknowledge my past struggles with anger and the mistakes I’ve made, but I’m hopeful that our joyful moments far outweigh those dark times.
I share my anger openly, refusing to let it fester in silence. When we ignore these discussions, we risk raising another generation of children who feel they must walk on eggshells. And I won’t let that happen.
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Summary:
This heartfelt piece highlights the emotional journey of a mother confronting her past while raising her firstborn. Through reflections on her childhood experiences with parental rage, she shares her commitment to breaking the cycle of fear and anger. By choosing love and understanding, she hopes to create a nurturing environment for her children, fostering open discussions about struggles and healing.