"Sometimes it's screaming and tears and boogers. ... I am not a monster, and I am not an angel. I am a mom. "
Haddayr Copley-Woods
As I leave for work, my sons Arie and Éiden stand on our screened-in porch, waving vigorously. "Bye!" Arie yells. "Baa!" Éiden yells. "Bye!" I yell. I pedal off on my bike, waving and weaving awkwardly in the street.
A family scene, sepia-toned. The boys peacefully share one bench in order to see out of the window. One holds a toy car.
Both are hopelessly apple-cheeked.
Awwwww, my neighbors might say, watching the curly little blond head and spiky little brown head pressed to the windows screens, all smiles. What a sweet family. Good mom. Good boys. Even their dog, panting cheerfully in the doorway, is good.
They have no idea that the pooch most likely ate some contraband and probably has the runs, my boys were both screaming furiously at the top of their lungs only minutes before, and that I feel like the worst mother in the world.
They didn't see a more public scene, although many others did: Last weekend, as I stood looking fruitlessly for a decent pair of sandals at Savers, Arie was whining and pestering me to buy a new lamp for his bedroom to replace the old one. Which he broke. On purpose.
I muttered something at him, fairly discreetly.
"No, Mommy!" he bellowed distinctly. "I am NOT being a pain in your ass!" It's amazing how clearly he enunciates when he wants to, and the volume he can produce.
This scene was in grainy black-and-white. The tension between mother and son was palpable. We stood slightly apart, mouths tense.
No one was saying: "Awwwwwww."
But minutes before, I stroked his hair and praised his patience while we shopped, letting him climb out of whichever car door he wished. He smiled up at me, and gave my hip a quick and stealthy kiss. Nobody saw that part.
No one saw a different domestic moment entirely when I bellowed at the top of my lungs: "Eat your fucking pasta, Arie. I don't give a good goddamn how much your brother has! EAT IT!!!"
And the two old women who told Jan and me as we left the family clinic with our well-dressed and quietly composed little boys to "treasure these times, they're only young once and the time flies by"? They were blissfully oblivious to the fact that only minutes before, Éiden was howling miserably out of paralyzing fear that the evil nurse would measure and weigh him, and Arie was forcibly removed from the exam room after he threatened the doctor with bodily harm in a misguided attempt to protect his little brother.
I am pretty lucky, with strangers. I have had very little unsolicited hostile parenting "advice," although the bit I've had has been vigorous. But whenever old folks tell me to Treasure These Times (it seems every old person who sees us uses this exact phrase), I feel judged. I look too tense, perhaps, not aglow enough with the wonder and the joy of it all.
Well, you know what? Sometimes it isn't wondrous and joyful. Sometimes it's screaming and tears and boogers, Éiden pounding his head melodramatically on the floor upon being denied a raisin, and parents losing our tempers over ridiculous things. Admittedly, sometimes it's whispering just the right thing into Arie's ear during a nightmare and knowing just how to hold him and help him drift gently back to sleep feeling loved, safe, and secure. Maybe then it is wondrous.
But no matter what scene you see in a family's life, it's only one moment in a day, a week, a month, a year. You probably don't need to call Nanny 911, or write the paper to nominate someone for Mother of the Year.
I am writing this column to remind myself of this fact. This morning, as I biked away from my sweet little boys waving vigorously from the front porch, I said to myself, still sore from the day before: Who says "fuck" to a 4-year-old boy? Over pasta? Am I trying to give him food issues? Have I lost my mind? Am I some kind of monster?
I was forgetting: It was one scene, in a series. In the confusing, messy, vaguely plotted play of our family's life with sometimes-random characters and settings, no narrative focus, and no moral lessons or clever literary allusions.
The pasta incident doesn't define us as a family any more than the goodbye scene does. I am not a monster, and I am not an angel. I am a mom.
Haddayr Copley-Woods is a mom and writer living in Powderhorn Park. Arie didn't eat the pasta.
Reader Comments
Posted: Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Article comment by:
Jason
Yes. Yes yes yes. Thank you. I can feel so guilty after freaking out on my little 3 1/2 year old girl. She instantly turns into a puddle if I raise my voice. Where is that yelling stuborn rude little dictator that just seconds before was demanding I run back into the house and up the sets a thrid time because she doesn;t like the pink blanky she wants the teddy bear blanky? Just a puddle asking how Daddy could be so mean. But, when I apologize to her and explain everyone makes mistakes, but it is just important we apologize and try always to speak nicely to each other she is very generous. It's ok Daddy, says the puddle now forming back into a firm little peanut. And I hope from this that maybe she can be a little more generous with herself too, when she make a mistake.
