A Different Kind of Mommy

I’m in the express lane at Walmart having just snapped at my kids (loudly and in public) for the third time when I realize I’ve become a different kind of mommy. In my head, I always imagine myself as the upbeat, easy going, “Good Jaaaahb!” kind of mommy. In reality, I’ve morphed into a dour, humorless drudge who is quick to correct, slow to smile and easily annoyed. How had this happened? When had this happened? And how would I ever afford the therapy bills my kids were sure to send me 20 years from now?

I began to notice the change in myself when my son was five and my daughter was barely out of diapers. It was not dramatic or immediately apparent to others. It was more of an internal shift, the puzzle piece slipping slightly out of place. The balance sheet no longer adding up. As I struggled to find my equilibrium in the midst of working, maintaining a marriage and parenting two children, I sensed my confidence in my ability to pull this thing off begin to waver. First, it was just a shadow of insecurity, worrisome like a hangnail, the barely visible little thread you begin to tug at the edge of a sweater. You give it a little pull thinking it will snap right off, but instead, the entire thing starts to unravel. So it was with my emotional grounding. First you get irritable. Then you stay irritable. You yell a little. Then a lot. You begin, as they say, to lose it.

It was easy to explain at first. The shorter temper. The intolerance for toys scattered about. The rush towards bedtime (skipping entire pages of Good Night Moon just to get the lights out sooner). And the ever-present edginess that settled in like an unwelcome houseguest. I’d find myself gritting my teeth while making breakfast, snarling out commands like a mama-kazi drill sergeant determined to whip the recruits into shape. To my added dismay, my kids developed an immunity to my mood swings. Rather than cow them into submission, my ongoing outbursts served only to toughen them up. They became mostly unfazed by my irrational rants, choosing for the most part to ignore me.

For a while I chalked it up to my age. It is true that Pampers and peri-menopause cannot happily co-exist. It is also true that at 48, I have a lot less stamina for getting down on the floor to play Candyland, at least if I expect to be able to get back up.

But it wasn't always this way. There was a time I felt more connected to it all. I recall tearful goodbyes at daycare when my son was very young – he trotted off happily to play with his pre-school pals as I sat in the car weeping in a guilt-induced heap, wracked by a sadness unique to working moms. Today I pull the car to a rolling stop, pushing my tender offspring from the still moving vehicle while shouting over my shoulder “Have a good day!”

There’s a theory that everything you buried in your 20s and 30s claws its way to the surface in your 40s, demanding a day of reckoning. I think that’s probably true, but I’m too busy to spend any meaningful time in self analysis. So I plow ahead, hopeful that since I know I have a problem, things can’t be all that bad. Right?

We’re driving in the car and I’m lost in thought about nothing in particular when my son pipes up: “Mom, why are you mad?” “I’m not mad,” I reply evenly. “You’re making the mad face.” “I am NOT making the mad face. I’m not making any face. I’m just driving.” “You were making a mad face. Like this,” he says, pursing his lips and scowling in his best imitation of me on the war path. I clench my teeth now and snarl: “I did not make that face and I. Am. Not. MAD!” My son looks out the window, murmuring, “Sheesh. You don’t have to be so mean.”

And maybe that’s it. I catch my self doing exactly what I tell my kids not to do: Being a bully. Finding fault. Behaving badly. When what I intend to be is kind, loving, and generous with praise. Do I need therapy? Hormone replacement? A martini?

In the end, I think what I need is forgiveness. Oh not the religious kind – I got that years ago, and thank goodness, too. No I think what it comes down to is I have to let myself off the hook and accept that the mother in my head does not exist. Really, I’m not sure she ever did. Most days, I do the best I can. Some days, I miss the mark by miles. There are times when I celebrate my family, delight in my children’s silly antics and am so thankful I could burst. But on those days when the glass seems half full, my work load is outrageous and I’m bloated, exhausted and overwhelmed, I’ve decided to lighten up. Take a deep breath, count to ten, and give myself a much needed time out. And when, after even the most unwarranted outburst (mine) the kids still want to cuddle and kiss and simply be close to me, I realize that maybe different isn’t the worst consequence of mid-life motherhood. It’s just, well...different.