you are mad

I am breathing slowly and deeply, searching within myself for the strength to keep calm. I am praying for the wherewithal to defuse the situation in front of me, while hoping to maintain my unruffled countenance. I have summoned the strength before, but I am grossly outnumbered today. You are all mad. All three of you.

I had envisioned this Monday morning going differently than it did, though I have no good reason to have done so. Every Monday morning is a bit challenging in our home, and I suspect that the vast majority of the human population feels the same way. There are alarm clocks beeping before the sun is even up, lunch bags to unearth from the bottom recesses of our backpacks for refilling, and shoes to drudge up from the closets or from under the couch. Or maybe your shoes are out on the porch. Or in the yard. It seems that the shoe bucket that I purchased to hold them never seems to actually contain my children's shoes. But that is another story.

On a typical school morning, while the kids are having their breakfast, I pack their lunches while listening to my three lovely children discuss life, love and the logistics for the day. They talk of which library book they are going to look for at school, or what game they might play on the playground, and with whom. Brooklynn might blush while speaking of Charlie, and Blake will have a bit of a glow around him because he is wearing his guitar shirt. Tristan is already planning what he wants to do after school, planting the elephant ear in the garden is on the top of his list. Occasionally they will bicker over a particular cereal box that they all want to read with their breakfast. A cereal box is equivalent to their morning paper. They do not want to share. All in all, however, our mornings are fairly pleasant.

Coming off of a very busy weekend where bedtimes were late and sunshine and fun were plentiful, the three of them are not well rested and therefore unusually ornery today. Tristan is mad because he had plans of scavenging favorite toys from the attic for redistribution into his room – to be done before school. I nixed that idea, in favor of actually getting to school on time.

Blake is mad because I asked him to finish his bowl of Cheerios. He was a little overzealous with his serving size, something that happens so often that I now charge him fifty cents each time he dumps a bowl of cereal down the drain. His piggy bank is getting short on quarters. Brooklynn is mad because one of the boys looked at her wrong. Wrong meaning: too long, not long enough, with a condescending air maybe, or with a I-can't-believe-what-a-dork-you-are feeling to it. She is mad, and the neighbors can hear her informing us of the situation.

So today I am less Martha Stewart Mom and more Bomb Squad Guy. If I cannot defuse the situation before we leave for school, inevitably the five minute drive to school will result in detonation, with our various body parts and fragile limbic systems in shambles. So I'm breathing. Slowly and deeply.

Now...I've been reading up on this. I found a dusty old book on my shelves, recommended to me years ago by a close friend, entitled How To Talk So Kids Will Listen and Listen So Kids Will Talk. At the time she suggested it to me, my twins were five and generally in love with each other. They adored their baby sister and thought the sun rose and set with me, their mother. Sibling rivalry was primarily limited to things like fussing over who got the biggest muffin, the cookie with the most chocolate chips, or which lucky boy got to be the first in the bathtub.

When I paged through the book back then, I was generally horrified by the way in which some of the children were talking to their parents. I could not believe the manner in which the children fought with each other and the abject disrespectful behavior depicted within its pages. I thought, “Finally, a parenting book that I do not need. My children are lovely, I do not even know what sibling rivalry is.” So I shelved the book, and there it stayed for over three years.

Today my twins are eight, my daughter is six (going on twelve), and today I need the book. In fact, I could have used it yesterday. And if I'm going to survive my mid-thirties without a prescription for an anxiety drug, I need the book tomorrow as well.

So I am going to put the authors Adele Faber's and Elaine Mazlish's methods to the test. Another deep breath, and here we go.

“You are mad, Brooklynn.” I say with a calm, reassuring voice. I am giving legitimacy to her emotions.

“Yes!” she scowls, complete with fists clenched and chin tucked low.

“Hmm... “, I reply.

This is when she is supposed to relax. This is the moment when she is theoretically supposed to be appreciative that I hear her distress and that I accept it as a valid emotion. It is okay to be mad, and I accept her feelings on the matter. This is not what happens, however.

Brooklynn decides, instead, to swing her little blue and yellow flowery lunch bag in a helicopter propeller motion, unintentionally slamming the bag into Blake's shoulder. The bomb timer is blinking red now and beeping louder than ever.

“Wait Blake, calm down. You are mad. You don't know why she hit you,” reasons their now freakishly panicked mother.

“Yeah! I didn't do anything!” replies Blake with a look of shock and outright rage.

I am supposed to give another, “hmm...” however, hmm'ing seems inappropriate here somehow. Hmm'ing uses up what little bit of precious time I have left before the bomb blows and I suspect it might sound like I'm placing judgment by minimizing the assault with what is essentially a hum. So, trying to think for myself what the next step should be, the instructions in the book getting fuzzier by the moment, I completely blow it.

“Brooklynn, what did you do that for?!?” comes flying out of my mouth.

Que the bomb exploding.

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Short fuses.

I have one, my son Blake definitely has one. I suspect my daughter is simply experiencing a late period of temper tantrums. She was perfectly delightful when she was two-years-old, so maybe she is just making up for lost time and trying her temper out on a temporary basis. I can only hope.

When Blake is having an unusually hard day and is especially fiery, he has been known to follow up a punch at this brother with a loud pronouncement, “I'm sorry, Tristan! You know I have anger issues!” Though I have explained countless times that his “anger issues” are not an excuse for getting physical, he sincerely feels out of control at times and can gain perspective by examining his actions with the left side of his brain.

I reflect on my own fiery reactions frequently enough, and find some solace in recognizing and owning my own weaknesses. Acknowledging a weakness is the first step in overcoming it, after all. I do not throw punches, but I have been known to throw things when I am mad. A kitchen spatula, a book, a pillow. There is a small, perfectly round hole in the drywall of our dining room, from a time when I threw a pencil so hard that it hit the wall like a dart and stuck there. I left the hole there to remind me to keep my cool next time. I know others who swear like a sailor when they get mad, and still others who bottle it all up and lose it on their unsuspecting husbands.

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My father came and spent a couple of months with us recently, to celebrate his retirement and his new ability to spend more time with family. For so many reasons, it was a wonderful visit. One reason in particular, however, was his perspective on the dynamics of our five-person family unit. Yes, we have sibling rivalry now. Yes, Brooklynn has a melt down at least three nights out of the week, usually at the dinner table. Yes, Brandon has been known to shake the walls with his vocal demand, “Go to your room, Brooke!” Yes, I have been known to scream at my boys while in our mini-van simply because I could not take the loud bickering coming from the backseat any longer.

Later, sitting with my father on the porch or at the kitchen table, reflecting on my feelings of defeat and shame at our behavior, he set my mind easy. Clearly he was not the most proud of me in these moments, but he was accepting of me all the same. He said it was normal. He said that if there was never any drama, we would be abnormal. He said that I have taught my children to have a strong voice, to think for themselves, and to stand up for what they believe in. It will serve them well later in life, but will in all likelihood mean a few fist fights between my boys and tears from my daughter now and then.

My father reassured me that my boys are like any other boys. A quick, short scuffle, and the argument is over. This is how boys fix things, he explained. Since the beginning of time, apparently. I was not raised with brothers so the physical nature in which they will sometimes fight is something I do not have any experience with. He had three brothers growing up, and can assure me that everything about my two boys is normal. That is not to say that I need to condone this behavior on a daily basis, but I do need to realize that they have too little estrogen coursing in their blood to expect them to sit down and talk out their differences each time.

He said that he can remember growing up and hearing my grandmother yelling, saying she had had enough and was going to leave if things did not change. My grandmother is going to be ninety years old next year and she is the sweetest, toughest old broad you will ever meet. Her heart is made of gold, but her core is made of steel. She's a lover and a fighter. So am I.

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There are moments when I dream fondly of a quieter household. One with less drama and strife. When my little ones leave home for college, I will have that and will probably find life to be too quiet. Too easy. I will miss their loud boisterous ways, their idle chatter at the kitchen table, and Blake's cereal money. Our lives are not defined by a few angry moments. We have far more daily interactions that are positive, lovely and sweet, than those mentioned above. Times when we are united as a family, unconditionally loving and ecstatically pleased with each other. They will remember those. I will remember those.

When I pick them up today after school, they will not remember having been mad. Of if they do, they will not remember why. They have already picked themselves up, turned course, and moved on. As I must. I will gather the things we need to plant the elephant ear bulb today, set out Blake's guitar, and open up the attic to retrieve a few old toys. A new box of markers set out for Brooklynn, and she will be all smiles. We'll spend a wonderful afternoon together, enjoying each others company. And tomorrow morning, inevitably, we will realize that somehow, inexplicably, we have lost our shoes again.