‘I just feel like punching everyone in the face.’ I sit on the bed, hunched over and huddling beneath my white and blue paisley dressing gown. Dave lets out a muffled laugh as he finishes brushing his teeth and comes out of the bathroom, cheekily offering his face for target practice.
A friend looks at me quizzically as we catch up on Sunday, cocking her head to the side as I speak candidly about losing my temper at the kids that week. She laughs and says, ‘I know you always talk about doing that but every time I see you, you are always just so nice and sweet and I just can’t imagine it.’ The line makes me pause. Her view of me is clearly very different than the picture I draw for myself.
The reality is probably somewhere between the two.
There are (many) moments when I explode with frustration, throwing helpless hands into the air when I happen upon a child still sitting in their pajamas after repeated instructions to get ready; heated debates with my eldest as to why he is losing yet another five minutes of screen time after yelling at me to ‘be quiet’ or continuing to do exactly as he wishes despite my orders to stop (playing the piano at full volume, recklessly bouncing a basketball through the house, lugging his baby brother awkwardly to another room). The fuel fills the air with a bitterness, hovering over the house and I lament the chaotic way in which we end up hauling ourselves to the car, yet again.
Instinctively, I know there are also overflowing moments of peace. The aching flash that hits when I see her smile and mispronounce a word that will be a matter of course all too soon. Overhearing them play ‘mums and dads’ and discuss in serious voices what to do with a (toy) baby who continues to ‘spew everywhere’. The heart-melting sight of my own baby learning to making kissing noises for the first time, his beaming look of pride as he practices again and again. There are snuggles and sighs, conversations and cups of tea.
Another friend shared this poem by Rumi this week and I found it beautifully profound in capturing the teetering balance in which we find so often ourselves.
Sitting with the ache does not come easily for us. I lunge for distractions instead – pouring more in the glass, doing yet another google search related to the Royal Wedding. I squirm under the weight of the discomfort and wish to rid myself of the pain.
Yet the art of burial, while fleetingly satisfying, never really seems to lead to lasting peace. Lessons that I could have learned earlier, become increasingly harder to ignore until I finally and tearfully surrender under the weight of it all. It is the shadow self, the reflection we do everything not to see. The cold shoulder we offer to those who subconsciously (and terrifyingly) remind us of our own lack.
It is at its most confronting in the midst of parenting. Our faults stare at us unblinkingly through the unpolished actions of our children. So often I catch myself yelling the very message I need to hear: ‘Stop trying to control everything!’ ‘Why are your reactions so explosive?!’ ‘Stop being so hard on yourself!’
It is a strange and fascinating journey, this path called life. We never really know what the day will bring, what joys and sorrows are waiting around the corner. Perhaps all we really can do is own the moment, embrace it and welcome the shadows.
Now I just have to take my own advice…
How do you respond when hardship or strong emotions take over? Do you have any tips for facing the storm and emerging stronger for it?
