Before you have children, you have all these righteous beliefs
on what you will and won’t do “someday” as a parent. You walk through all the mistakes you think
you’re parents made and you swear, hand over heart, you won’t make those same
mistakes; say those same things you’re parents said to you that seemed so
ridiculous and drove you crazy. You
think to yourself, someday when I have kids I’m not going to scream “Don’t make
me pull this car over” all the while swinging a smacking hand between the front
console and back seat and really giving the separating air space a good run for
its money. And then you cross that
bridge, foot on the break pad indicating to your brood “you mean business” and
will indeed pull this car over right now.
I remember when I was a stay-at-home mom and I had a three
year old pitching a screaming tantrum, a one year old quick on his sister’s
heels to emulate the tantrum, a messy house and a pile of laundry tall as
Everest. I remember I sat on the couch,
surrounded by the small pounding fists and ear piercing noise, and began to cry. I was still so sleep deprived and I had run
out of options to appease my babies. The
screaming only clouded my thinking even more.
I could feel myself breaking and I honestly wasn’t sure what I might be
capable of in an effort to make everything quiet.
I stood up off the couch, walked into the office and shut
and held the door. The kids followed me,
pounding on the door and screaming and crying even louder than they had been in
the family room. With one hand pressed
on the door, I rested one ear on my arm and plugged the other ear with my free
hand. I remember thinking if they are
screaming it’s a good sign they’re still breathing and very much alive. I needed to just a moment to work my head out
so I could remember how much I love the two screaming and hysterical beings on
the other side of the door.
I left them out there for less than five minutes, but in
those five minutes I learned a lifelong lesson about empathy. I want to be clear that I do not condone or
understand how parents can actually hurt their children, but in those moments
behind the closed door, I learned that decent people, if pushed hard enough,
are capable of breaking and crossing over to a dark place I hope to never
become fully acquainted with.
Something else also happened that day. I learned to forgive my parents, to stop being so hard on them for their missteps,
to stop blaming them for my inadequacies and to recognize they did the best
they knew how to do, just like I’m doing now. I think sometimes we all feel
like we’re the only dysfunctional family in the neighborhood, but we’re
not. We’re all just trying to figure
stuff out all the while flinging easy judgments out on what we don’t always
understand.
Parenting is one of the most uncertain and self-deprecating paths
I’ve ever had the privilege to walk. I
still have to remind myself frequently that it really is a privilege and that I’m one of the lucky ones who against her
will became a “mommy.” Truth be told, I still
feel the urge to hide behind a closed door on occasion – literally and metaphorically,
but as long as I keep opening the door back up I know there is hope.
