I was at the dentist recently, having two teeth filled. He finished the first tooth, which he had drilled so deep I swear I felt my eyeballs cower in fear, and took his mask off.
“Are you all right?” he said.
I looked away from “CBC Newsworld: Politics” (mental note: next time schedule dentist’s appointment for 4 pm so I can at least watch Oprah) and nodded.
“I can tell you’re a mom,” he said, “you’re so calm.”
Calm?
Sure – when my face is frozen with anesthetic and I’m reclined in a comfy chair, watching TV. Unless the dentist and his assistant climb up on my lap and start screaming at me, one in each ear, I am sure to remain calm, relaxed even. Going to the dentist is almost as good as a spa visit these days. But with my kids, when I’m being a mom? I am not generally calm. And I am OK with that.
I used to be calm. In my life before kids – hell, in my life with just one kid, number one son being the mellow, bookish type – I was relaxed to a fault. Sure I got riled up about bad drivers and stupid politicians and people who walk too slowly on the sidewalk; I am a blogger, after all, but as a mother, as in most things, I was chill.
Then came number two son. On a good day I call him “exuberant.” The rest of the time he is a non-sleeping, shouting, early walker whose very existence has, naturally, turned our world upside down. My mellow older child hit the crest of his terrible twos just as the baby was learning how much fun it was to stay up all night and eat. Calm? Me? Just today I have yelled twice. Once in the middle of the park! Before this past year I don’t remember yelling more than twice total.
Here’s the thing, though. I sort of like not being calm. After a lifetime of bottling up my feelings and then exploding them into petty rebellion (my teens), angst-filled poetry (my ’20s), and snarky blog posts (my ’30s) it feels really good to yell, get mad, get frustrated, let it go.
I don’t remember the first time the rage overcame me. Let’s say it was 9 am, after a night of broken sleep, trying to get out the door with the toddler dragging his feet and the baby crying every time I put him down. That seems as likely a scenario as any. I lost it. I yelled and slammed things and my kids just stared at me, silent at least, waiting to see what would happen.
After I blew up, gave everyone a hug and got us all outside, I felt normal. Fine. Invigorated, even? Maybe. And I suddenly saw the upside of expressing your emotions in the moment instead of saving them for weeks or years, hiding them behind a mask of calm. No grudges. No hard feelings. Just say your piece, move on, go to the grocery store.
There are days I am frustrated with my new self, my mom-self, for being unable to find that calm, relaxed state when I want it. It is often out of reach, just on the other side of about 16 – 25 hours of straight sleep. Some days I blame the kids for this, for taking my calm away. I have to admit, though, that by relentlessly pushing and testing me, by being themselves, they have helped me become a better version of myself. I should thank them, not blame them.
Although it definitely does not always feel that way.
I will thank them someday. Maybe someday at 4 am, when they are just asleep after a night of partying, I will call them up to chat or have fifteen pizzas delivered to their apartments. As their mother I reserve the right to hold some grudges.
(Originally posted at the Canada Moms Blog.)