Recently, due to the age of my son and the rage I sometimes feel, I’ve been thinking a lot about my parents and how I was raised. Running with TNT for my father makes me think of him a lot. And it is hard to come up with happy memories. Which is unfair, because I know there must have been some. To be honest, it’s hard to come up with any memories, mostly there’s just a feeling of fear and guilt in the pit of my stomach, unconnected to anything I can put into words.

The people upstairs bang around a lot on their hardwood floors. It took a long time for me to realize why that made me want to grab the kids and hide under the bed, not breathing.

These things are things I need to talk about. Along with the positive, absolutely wonderful things that are going on. But to talk about one and deny the other has the ring of a secret. I hear my mother in the back of my head telling me not to talk about it with anyone. Not to mention it. And I can’t do that. The more I do the more I draw everything in, the less I talk about anything with anyone. And I can’t do that to my kids. So on my desk I’ve placed the secrets quote, and I’ve made up my mind to discuss what I need to, with the knowledge that for awhile it’ll probably be heavily negative. But once told most stories don’t need to be repeated.

I should probably follow through and try to be more anonymous, restart a blog without telling any of you where I’ve disappeared to. But it comes down to pride, as ridiculous as it may sound. These are MY experiences. I may not be happy with them, they may have sucked (and I’m the first to admit I had it better than most), but they are still what made me who I am, and I still was the one who survived them. In the end I can’t let fear of being caught stop me from relating my truth (good god, that sounds like such new-age crap).

I can not ask you for your discretion: I’m airing my dirty laundry for all the world to see. But I do ask that if you know my family, please keep in mind that we all have our bad moments. We are all trying the best with what we have been given. And you’re only hearing my side of the story, warped by my age at the time and immaturity, then and continuing to the present.

So, yeah, 2012, perhaps the year I can let my rage go, stop tensing up my back when someone asks if they can ask me a question, stop being so afraid someone will find me out, stop jumping when someone slams a door. Even if it doesn’t happen, there just isn’t any space left to hide this shit and it’s no place to raise children.

It’s not easy to describe why I’m a stay-at-home mom. It’s especially hard to do without sounding like I think it’s the only right decision.

It is the only right decision for MY family. And, frankly, I’d complain just as much about how frustrating being a working mom is. It’s just what I do. (Although I think I’m making some fantastic headway in not complaining as much as I used to, in seeing just how blessed I truly am.)

Sometimes it hurts to hear these remarks and not have a decent way to describe why this was my decision. There was an especially difficult time when she commented that it’s similar to a friend leaving a prestigious and difficult-to-get-into career program to follow a boyfriend across the country. It made me wonder if I was the only one to see these as different things. The comment still haunts me. Can I be friends with someone who looks down on my world view so completely? Because, to me, following a boy instead of finishing a six-month program is giving up on your life, raising your kids isn’t.

I’m proud of my decision to stay home. I just need to own it a bit more. I’m a feminist because I believe that women should be given equal chances to succeed, that we should have the ability to choose between home and career, and that our careers should be limited based on our abilities, not our sex. I am a stay-at-home mom because I believe our children should have stability in their early years (Every Childs Birthright: In Defense of Mothering) and that a parent is the best hope for that. I believe that childcare can be just as good, but that decent childcare is too expensive where we live, especially when you factor in how badly I truly wanted to be home to raise my kids.

Honestly, that’s the crux. I love being home with my kids. I love that each day there is another chance for me to watch my son learn about the world and to snuggle with my daughter. I love to show them new things and celebrate each little victory. I love to take them to the park and watch their interactions with the other children. I would miss so much of that if I worked outside the home. And instead I’d be paying someone else to enjoy these moments and tell me about them. I don’t want a second-hand experience like that. I want to see Reed’s eyes light up when he sees the moon, even if it’s the hundredth time he’s shown me. I want see Thrace pull to a stand and take her first steps. I’ve seen how upset Tom is when he misses these moments. I don’t feel guilty that I don’t bring in money, I feel guilty that one of us needs to.

Which is actually what it comes down to. The feminist in me applauds the men in my life who’ve chosen to stay home to rear their children, why does she berate me for taking the same path? Yes, my career has a hiccup, but what’s the point of a career if you’d really rather spend your life doing other things? We aren’t seriously hurting for money, we can afford the things we need. We’ve just chosen to have me home instead of taking vacations other than seeing family, which is really all we need. We’ve chosen to have a parent home instead of having two cars, new clothes every season, a new home, the latest gadgets. Why should I need to explain this to my feminist side every time my friend sends me a job opening?

I loved my job. There are days I miss it. But most of the time I enjoy this far more. I work harder every day than I ever did behind a desk, and I never need to question at 5 PM whether I should devote another hour to a project or go home to my kids, which, given the nature of my career was what I watched others do.

There it is, I feel like I’m making a judgment on those mothers. I’m not, it’s just not what I want. They were amazing moms. But the decision they made was for THEIR families, their careers. There is no defense of staying home that doesn’t sound like an attack on not staying home. There’s nothing I can say to my friend to convince her that this was the right decision for me without feeling like I’m insulting her decision.

That has totally been my morning. I’m not sure it’s recoverable at this point.

It is such a gorgeous day! I am so excited because we could go to the park without worrying about the air quality or about overheating. High of 87º. Gorgeous.

Only Tom wakes up to tell me he had been up working until 2 AM, which makes me extremely guilty because I’ve GOT to go to the toilet and the kids are SCREAMING, an hour earlier than they normally wake up.

And then the coffee machine hadn’t been cleaned yesterday (which reminds me, I should take care of that now…done). Then the boy’s throwing things. Tom leaves, late, and baby wakes up from her nap almost at the same time, which is about two hours earlier than normal, having gone back to sleep earlier than she should. The boy isn’t turning around when I say his name and counting to three (my last-resort method) isn’t working AT ALL.

He FINALLY sits on the potty and poops. Everything seems right in the world.

But then we get to the sunscreen. Baby and I have it on, but he’s running around the house. I grab him, throw him over my shoulder, and head back to his room with the sunscreen. And step on my Ergo. On the buckle. With my heel. So, yeah, that’s dead. I can’t imagine life without it. I can’t even imagine the rest of the day without it. Chasing the boy over all terrains while pushing a stroller? Ain’t gonna do it.

Also, this is the fourth Special Thing of mine he’s caused to be broken this week (yes, it was my fault, I stepped on it, and I put it in a place where he could throw it on the floor, but y’know how these thoughts go). The first being a really fantastic Art Deco evening bag I bought before I was married.

I put the boy in his room and tell him I need a time out. Not for him, he can play, I just need to calm down. Baby and I investigate the damage. It’s not going to work. Okay. I’ll make do. We’ll figure it out as we walk. Usually the boy listens and won’t run off too far (as long as he’s on the sidewalk and in sight he’s allowed to walk ahead or down the paths in the parks we walk by, LARGE sidewalks, I just don’t like being outside the running distance of him stepping into traffic, which he CERTAINLY seems to understand). So we’ll be fine.

But then, there’s that Noise. I can’t describe the Noise. It’s something he does with his tongue or his lips or something. It’s almost silent. But it’s there. And it means he’s pooping. No problem, potty is easy to clean out. Only…he’s NOT…on the potty.

“I pooped Mommy.”

“In the potty, sweatheart?”

“Nope.”

“Where?”

“In me pants.” He gives me a sheepish grin, where did he learn that?

I’m gripped.

Back into the living room. It’s been awhile since I’ve needed to clean underpants, and it’s a LOT worse than cloth diapers. Regrouping. I’ve been operating with a low patience supply this week. A combination of lack of sleep, missing my family, being frustrated with The Man for forgetting both Mother’s Day and my birthday. I hold a grudge. I know that’s bad. Admitting these things to myself as I try to let go of my anger at the boy for not using the potty. I mean, it was RIGHT THERE!

Okay, back in. Only, well, let’s just say this isn’t going to be easy to clean up. So. Shower.

And I feel awful about this, because the boy hates the shower. I’m hugging him tight and trying to pull off the underwear. He’s doing really well. Water temperature is great, we’re clean, excellent. Put him down. And he runs off.

This is when I realize we’re not going to the park. But, even being as gorgeous as it is, this is more calming than anything else I could think of.

We settle down, and all play with the Little People. We’re having fun. Then he punches me full on in the face.

“Lunchtime,” I declare.

“Naptime,” I decide, immediately following quite a few too many minutes of heated debate concerning the slicing of sandwiches which may or may not have had too much peanut butter and too little jelly depending on who you choose to believe.

And here the peak is in view. I know it. I’m trying to get out of here. There’s been too much yelling and whining from the boy; he’s been running out the apartment door when I’m not looking, into the hall; he’s been opening the patio door when I’m feeding Evie in the other room, which scares the shit out of me because I’m afraid he’ll get hurt. I can’t take this much today. These are rules he doesn’t normally break.

But here’s the baby. Sweet, little, quiet baby. Suddenly she’s screaming with a bad diaper rash from a poop I HEARD come out as we walked into the room, brand new poop. She’s in SO much pain, and I can’t get her to stop crying, even after I give up cleaning her up. Even after I try to feed her. Even after I give her my iPod with Sesame Street playing, which was so novel I thought for sure it would work. The faint buzzing in my ear as I try to help her is the boy, who finally comes over and steals the iPod, just as baby is beginning to calm. He’s STILL telling me he wants it.

“SHUT UP!” I screamed at him. And I know I was able to perfectly channel my father by the look of absolute terror in his eyes, which mirrored the emotions I feel whenever anyone is mad at me. He sat himself down on the couch and waited for me to come over.

I have never been that loud. I have told myself I would never tell my kids to shut up. I have listened to him prattle on and ask the same question over and over again for weeks and not said it. I have told myself I wouldn’t scare my kids into submission. I know we tell ourselves these things we will not do (let our kids watch too much TV, eat candy, etc.), but this isn’t the same. This isn’t “bad parenting” that you should avoid. To me this is Terrible Parenting.

Please tell me it isn’t just me. Tell me you sometimes yell at your kids things you regret. Tell me that it isn’t my upbringing coming out and that I can learn to control my first impulse, which is to scream at the things making me angry. Tell me we can come back down from this.

There’s an Au Bon Pain and a convenience store at one of the intersections before you get to the McDonalds. My plan was to buy us lunch at McDs (we eat pretty good, so I think once in a little while isn’t so bad), treat us to a cookie at Au Bon Pain, pick up our veggies and then hoof it back home.

But Reed ran into the convenience store, with me chasing him, telling him not to touch anything. He grabbed a Nutrigrain bar and ran out into the Au Bon Pain, laughing the entire way as I chased him.

(It makes it so much worse when they’re laughing as if it’s a game, doesn’t it. As though they’re really just here to toy with your emotions.)

Caught him, brought him back to the cashier, gave her the bar, which seemed fine to me when I handed it over. She called out to me and told me that it was destroyed and I’d need to pay for it. Fine. My kid, who I should have had a better hand on, destroyed something and I OF COURSE I’d pay for it.

But he’s still flipping out and screaming because I’m not buying it for him. She tells me it’s a buck. I hand over my debit card, and she tells me that it’s 1.25 if I pay by card. Which is ridiculous, and at which point I really would have expected her to say, “nevermind,” but whatever it’s a business they need to make money and it was MY fault, I know that. I’ll eat another quarter for a bar that I would normally never touch.

Reed is now COMPLETELY FLIPPING OUT and on the floor. I toss the bar onto the counter and say “I don’t actually want this, can you just toss it?” but, as I’m turning around to calm Reed down, I see it falls on the floor, I just overshot.

As I bend down to pick him up the thing WHIZZES by my ear and the woman SCREAMS something unintelligible at me. I yell back at her that I handed intended to throw it at her, it was a mistake, and run out the door pulling Ben. I then remember I need the receipt because I don’t trust her to charge me the right amount at this point, and go back to ask her for it. AND SHE’S PUTTING THE DAMN BAR BACK ON THE SHELF!!!

I left, dragging Reed by his shoulder, which I hate to do, but he wasn’t moving and I was so furious that I was crying and shaking and completely flipping out. When she threw the bar she knocked a pair of sunglasses off the stand near me, which just seems like it must have been really, really fast and hard. I pulled him past the Au Bon Pain and bent down next to him to explain that we didn’t have enough money to get a cookie any more (a total lie, of course, but how else do I explain without it just being “mommy’s mad”? Natural consequences just seem better in the long run) and told him I was mad that he stole the bar but still loved him and gave him a big hug.

We went and got McD’s, which was still a treat, and seemed reasonable since I’d already basically punished him by saying we couldn’t have a cookie I’d already promised. A woman came up to me and told me she’d seen the end of the flip out and thought I was doing an excellent job and I just lost it and started crying. I feel like an awful mom when I yell at all. And grabbing his arms like that totally freaks me out, because I do it in rage, even if it’s not rage at him. And I do it to scare him into complying with me. I work REALLY hard at not doing these things. But that woman TERRIFIED me in a way I couldn’t explain.

She HUCKED the bar at us. US!!! A woman CARRYING a baby and a three-year old. How is that appropriate? Even if I HAD thrown it at her, which I really don’t think I did, but maybe in trying to calm Reed down I did. EVEN if I did: a three-year old and a BABY!

We got lunch, played in the green area near our CSA pick-up, got our fruit and veg, and made it back home on the Metro in one piece. But I’m still feeling on edge over that woman and how I lost my mind.

So how was YOUR day?

We’re in the middle of snowmaggedon right now, and while it’s nice it’s still chilly. We spend about 10 minutes getting Reed dressed every time we go out, and I still worry that he’s too cold (mostly because I am too cold). But we got down to the plaza and there was this baby with his parents screaming his head off. He looked like he was about four months old. And he was NOT wearing enough. He had a pants, a shirt, and a sweatshirt with a hood pulled up.

The couple came over to say hi (because usually you can count on people around hi to be nice and non-judgmental–at least until after you’ve left). They tried to get the baby to take notice of Reed and smile and maybe calm down a little. And I just couldn’t stop myself when his mom said, “He’s usually so happy to be out.”

“He needs gloves,” I said. “It’s cold.” Which is true! But she replied that he didn’t like gloves and walked away. It wasn’t like they were abusing the poor kid, but where do you draw the line in speaking up about kids that look like they may need a little more attention? The hands in question were bright red, and being out for only a few minutes I was already losing feeling in my toes. I was torn because I wanted to tell them about the bunting thing we’d had (which covered feet and hands without needing gloves) and wanting to keep my mouth closed, because it isn’t fair to assume that they’re stupid enough to take their son out in such cold weather dressed so poorly.

I’ve heard of people being told that their child wouldn’t be able to breathe with the plastic covering sold with their stroller, had people tell me that Reed shouldn’t be allowed to walk around the plaza as far from me as I let him, and had my mother tell me that Reed was very unsafe being carried by me. I know all of these people are acting with love in their hearts, as I was, but I still hate these people just a little.

Of course we used to raise our children as a village, with multiple generations having input. I don’t know. Should I be changing my opinion of busybodies? Or should I keep chastising myself for being one myself?

We move too fast and too easily through our lives now. We miss out on the spaces between events. I believe in the importance of pauses. I try to force these breaks: taking the train instead of the plane, walking most places with my kids, cooking dinners and baking from scratch. I want my kids to know that instantaneous does not mean best.

Family members have offered us deals on their older cars, have suggested various pre-made foods when they eat over (is my cooking not good enough?), to pay for airline tickets. They don’t understand that these are choices I’ve made based on something other than the monetary cost. There is a higher cost that I can’t explain without the shorthand of religion and faith.

Reed (2.5 yrs) is beginning to catch on to waiting. I let him watch too much TV—which in my mind right now is ANY—but when I tell him he needs to occupy himself for a little while he’ll generally find a car or crayon. I don’t expect this to last. I’m sure he’ll head off to school and quickly realize not everyone takes a full day to get to Boston. Not everyone takes a few hours to go to pick up groceries. But maybe I can instill in him some small seed that helps him know it isn’t always bad to wait. That you can want things for awhile and not suffer in the meantime. That the journey can be just as important and valuable as the destination.

When I was a child I had a doll with a heavy, floppy head. Her body was designed to feel exactly like a real baby’s, her arms moved exactly like a real baby when you picked her up, and her eyes fluttered when you laid her down. I was her third owner. I loved her more than anything. And I took very good care of her. She went for a walk every day in her pram; she was fed (with a little bottle that bubbled towards the top making it look like she was drinking) at least once a week; and she had her eyes poked quite a few times until they were broken.

I lift Thrace sometimes and am transported back to those moments. I remember playing in the cellar clutching her to me, telling her I loved her. I don’t know if it’s because she is my daughter instead of my son, or if somehow her weight is distributed closer to the weight of the doll’s, but I never had these memories with Reed. These memories seem newly uploaded.

It’s an odd feeling. I don’t remember a lot of my childhood. I remember occasions: specific birthdays, holidays, moments on vacation, the time my mom was pulled over for a broken tail light. I remember sitting in reading class in jr. high with my friend turned around to chat. I remember that time my Grandmother came shopping with us and had me bend down in front of a mirror and told me to “remember that” (but I still don’t know whether she was telling me to remember I have cleavage so that I wouldn’t show it off or remember that I’m a woman). I don’t remember generic moments. I don’t remember gardening with my family or sitting down to dinner. I don’t remember playing with my siblings. I remember the things we have pictures of or I wrote down in my diary.

Worse than the strangeness of being hit by these memories is the fear. I feel suddenly as though I’ve no clue what I’m doing. And as though I’m seven again pretending to be a mommy. And I realize I really don’t know how to parent. Is this an ACOA thing? Is it just because my kids are still young? Will I grow out of it as my kids age and I deal with each new issue? Do real people ever have moments where they feel not real?

I see moms in the supermarket or at the toddler playgroup I’ve just found, and no one seems to be worried that someone’s going to out them. I keep expecting one to point me out and whisper theatrically, “she’s totally faking it.” Or for MPs to jump out from behind walls to take away my kids because I’m not a “real” mom.

I keep expecting for someone to leave a glass unicorn on my doorstep.

I don’t want my children to be second-generation survivors. The woman who sent me to Al Anon wasn’t the child of an alcoholic, she was the child of the child of an alcoholic. She told me how the survival tactics her mother employed affected her own growth and development. In times of stress those traits come out in me. I don’t want to pass along the inability to function.

And so I set up programs to follow and mimic the examples I see other moms setting. I try to be as real with my kids as I can, especially right now with Reed. And I just keep praying that no one looks too closely and sees the strange way I bat my eyes or that my knees don’t bend.

No, really, I understand that I’m not making a lick of sense. I’m not some deep-thinker, and I’m sure I’m not even scratching the surface of this, but it doesn’t change the fact that it’s been on my mind.

Yesterday I heard Elizabeth Gilbert writing about the worst wedding toast she’s ever heard on This American Life. (By the way: The Fears of Your Life segment is most likely the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.) The toast brings up the best man’s worst day of his life, where he made the decision to send a young man to his death (as part of a jury).

As she says, “The human psyche cannot always tell the difference between good events & bad events; all we can feel is the tremor of the earth.”

Like most things, I find it easier to when people show an interest and want to hear more. Getting this stuff out in the open is nice, it makes it feel less taboo. I’d like to suggest that if you know anyone with depression, a child with a speech/learning impairment, or other difficulty that you ask them if it’s something they’d like to discuss and if it’s okay to ask them questions about it. While I’m sure that not everyone is like me and wants to get into the details of their lives, we know that you’re thinking about what’s going on. When the elephant has been parked in your living room, you know everyone knows it. My main fear is that he’s been sticking his trunk where it doesn’t belong, and you’ve been complaining about it with others instead of with me. But it’s hard for me to bring up because you’ve got your own things to deal with.

There’s been a LOT of progress in Reed’s speech. The greatest being that he seems interested in talking. He will occasionally repeat words we say and, wonder of wonders, say new words on his own without prompting! This has been the hardest thing to explain to people. Someone will hear me say “now you try” and Reed repeat the word back (such as “all done”) and then say “well, that’s great! He can say ‘all done.’” But that’s not entirely true.

Reed doesn’t “own” many of the words he’s technically able to to say. He replaces many of these with “Budd-ah” which seems to be a cross of “buddy” and “what’s that.” Or else he’ll say “I don’t know.” These are placeholders. They give him a way to answer, which he’s realizing he needs to do, without actually speaking. It hurts. Especially when it’s a word we just had him say. It is getting better, though. I can’t stress how much having a speech therapist with him once a week is helping. She makes a point of telling us what we should work with him on each given week, and these things are usually something he’s caught on with by the next session.

Oh, he also “read” parts of Go, Dog. Go! (Beginner Books(R)) with us, and I must say that is a great book for this age. If Reed knows a lot of the words (Up, Down, Dog, Car) then other kids must know even more, and it should really help engage them in “reading” the book with you.

So, if you have any questions about this, even if you aren’t going through it yourself and are just curious, feel free to ask. The news is positive now, but even when it’s not it feels better to discuss it. And, no, you won’t make me feel like my kid’s a freak show.

Some background, in case you’ve missed it. My dad was an alcoholic. The summer before my second grade I had a birthday party and cookout. My mom took us to the park and when we returned he was plastered with the parents of another attendee. Things were thrown, my mom took us back to the park, stories (most likely embellished, but even if they weren’t certainly terrifying enough to make parents forbid kids from coming to my house) were told to parents, I entered the second grade and no one would talk to me. It didn’t help that I was already pretty awkward and loved being the teacher’s pet.

My mom took in latchkey kids for extra cash. One, S., was forced to include me in all of her events, including a pool party at her house at the end of the year. S told me I shouldn’t go, that it wouldn’t be fun, that we wouldn’t be able to use the pool, etc. I wasn’t stupid. I knew what she was getting at. I begged my mom not to make me go, but she went on and on about how lucky I was to be included, how fun it would be, how she wished she had such rich friends when she was a kid (yup, she actually said that).

At the party I had a great time. I loved swimming, and though most of the girls were avoiding me, I barely noticed there was so much to do by myself. (They even had a DIVING BOARD!!!) Then S. called us all into a huddle the way only second-grade girls can. She talked about how much fun we were going to have and how great the sleepover was going to be and how we “all love everyone who’s here…well except for one person, but she doesn’t know who she is.” Only she did.

As calmly as I could I walked into the house and called my mom to come get me. I kept it together until I was on the phone and my mom just wasn’t understanding. When I started bawling she told me to “grow up and get over it” and hung up. S.’s mom got me a glass of water, but I don’t know if she heard my story. She showed me how to use cool water to make my red eyes less noticeable (not that it helped) and sent me back out with a plate of cookies.

On Monday one girl had lice and it was said I gave it to her at the party. Songs were sung about me and lice and my general disgustingness. I got over it.

People turned down my invitations. I wasn’t invited to every party. I don’t remember a single one of those. I do remember the sneers, the statements of “my mom is making me invite you,” the mean notes inside thank you notes and invitation cards and Valentines. Kids are mean. You can’t force your kids to be nice. Trying to get them to invite the kid they don’t like only teaches them to be disingenuous and increases the divide between them and the outcast.

I’m all for getting your kid to try new things, to invite the new kid, to step out of her comfort zone. But I will never force mine to invite the me-equivalent. Maybe I’ll suggest it, and if they so no we’ll try to talk about it. But forcing the issue is doing the outcast no favors. We may want our kid to be the one who doesn’t care about being popular, or who cares more about being nice and fair than being popular, but it isn’t fair to make that choice for them. And it’s a really hard choice to make when your entire world is school. I don’t think I could do it.

And if my kid ends up being the outcast, as I think everyone is at some point in his life, I’ll listen and give him hugs and make sure he knows that he isn’t an outcast with me and that there is NOTHING wrong with him. I’ll find him other activities outside of school. Mostly I’ll try to help him understand that we can’t change the way other people act, only how we respond.