You see, the previous week, I\’d happened to stroll into the kitchen just as Dan was struggling with the bacon-wrapped turkey recipe he\’d selected for the carnivorous members of the family to devour on Christmas Day. He was, indeed, threatening the turkey with the same expulsion through the window that I would later utter in the darkness of night with over six months of sleep deprivation behind me and a crying infant before me. The turkey wasn\’t phased. It was, after all, already dead. My crying infant wasn\’t phased. I, however, was phased.
Parenting has turned me inside out. Frustration that I could previously quell under a calm exterior now bubbles to the surface unexpectedly and forcefully. I once had a colleague tell me she was placing a particular student in my classroom because, although she had never seen me teach, she reported always feeling a sense of calm when she walked past my open door. Now, I slam doors and drop F-bombs – not too many, but a few. Yes, I swear. Betcha some of you are shocked (and some not-so-much).
The latest F-bomb came yesterday. The boys and I had journeyed to Ann Arbor in the morning to visit the Hands-On Museum. I was proud of myself for prepping lunch ahead of time for Keats to eat en route home and for successfully using the facilities myself at the museum with Wren strapped into the Ergo carrier. SuperMum or what?! We\’d had a great morning, with synchronized crying thankfully holding off until we were only twenty minutes from home. Their crying, not mine.
The plan was to try out a new slow cooker recipe. We\’re currently staying with my parents who have, to say the least, accumulated just a few things over the years. The slow cooker was on the floor of the bathroom, which is located off the laundry. The bathroom, incidentally, is fully functional, but unused because it\’s apparently better as a storage area. To get to the slow cooker, I had to reach over the vacuum cleaner and various other accoutrements on the laundry floor and duck under the clean shirts hanging from the door frame. Keats had finally stopped his constant string of \”Why?\” questions and was playing beautifully nearby, Wren was bawling for attention on the kitchen floor, the vacuum cleaner fell over with a crash, the shirts and hangers clattered down, and, \”For FUCK\’S SAKE!\” echoed through the laundry to the innocent ears of my little boys while the pasta bubbled over on the stove.
I\’m beginning to accept how hard emotions are to control at times. Deep breaths are hard to muster in the midst of chaos. I don\’t like this Shadow Self who walks hand-in-hand with my Mama Self. I don\’t like how unpredictable I am each day, having dance parties with my boys to \”Happy\” and \”Shake It Off\” one moment, then erupting the next when the crying gets too much, the questions get too much, and Ijustwantamomentofpeaceplease. My job right now is parenting, and yet I\’m not able to maintain a professional persona akin to the one I managed as a teacher.
I realized the other day that after over 12 years in education, I\’m good. I know teaching. I can help a student grasp a math concept, write a narrative, or fall in love with a book like I couldn\’t as a novice teacher. I can even support colleagues\’ growth by asking the right questions or offering the right insight. It\’s been a rude awakening to be a novice all over again in an entirely different job. Strangely, it only just dawned on me that this is the case. I\’ve spent almost three years shaking my head in disappointment when my Shadow Self emerges, particularly in the past ten months now with two Littles to raise. It\’s okay, though. It\’s okay. I can give myself a break. I\’m still pretty new to this parenting business. A slammed door in November, a threat to wrap a baby in bacon in December, and an F-bomb in April won\’t be a detriment to my boys\’ psyches, not when those moments are outweighed by shared breakfasts, adventures outside, time spent playing and reading together, cuddles, and apologies when needed.
After all, I\’m only human, for fuck\’s sake 😉
To Palimpsest 