I Don’t Want to Be an Angry Mum
Motherhood: A Daily Test in Patience (and Rice Krispie-Based Rage)
It’s always bubbling under the surface. The rage. The WHY IS THIS HAPPENING AGAIN fury. It lurks, waiting for the exact moment my bare foot lands on the 1000th rogue Rice Krispie of the day. Or when my toddler refuses to nap before the school run… because why would she, when she can instead use this valuable time to disassemble my will to live? Or when I hear my name for the 500th time before 9 am.
And I try to be calm. I really do. I schedule things. I leave buffer time to avoid stress. But then, out of the corner of my eye, I see her. First, the shoes. Then the socks. Now we’re late. Again.
And then there's the overwhelm. The constant hum of responsibility. My stomach aches from not eating properly because I’ve spent the day feeding everyone else, running the school gauntlet, and managing the family admin. But I compensate, with caffeine. Which is stupid, because coffee does to me what petrol does to a diesel engine. Now I’m overstimulated and starving.
I have literal teeth marks in my lip from stopping the scream that’s clawing its way out of my mouth. Not a metaphor. Not a joke. Just the physical evidence of me trying so hard not to snap.
And maybe it’s because I grew up in the ‘90s, where parenting was basically yelling and the occasional light assault. (Sorry, Mum and Dad, if you’re reading this. Love you. But also, facts are facts.) Back then, discipline was doled out via volume or a well-placed smack. And I get it, it was a different time.
But that stops with me. Full stop.
The idea of ever laying a hand on my kids makes me feel physically ill. The rage, though! The stress, the sheer overwhelm, that’s what I’m fighting. I don’t want them to take the brunt of my bad days. I don’t want them to remember me as the mum who always seemed one Rice Krispie away from losing it.
And yet, sometimes, the frustration slips out.
It happens fast. The kids have me surrounded, expertly tag-teaming me into oblivion, and suddenly, my voice is not the gentle, measured tone of a mindful parent who reads articles on emotional regulation. It’s a growl.
And then I see their faces. Their wide, tear-filled eyes. And I hate myself.
I don’t remember feeling this angry when my son was a toddler. My daughter isn’t even more of a handful than he was. So what’s changed? Am I just older and more tired? Have I simply run out of patience? Is this some delightful mid-to-late-30s hormonal glitch?
It doesn’t help that when I gently lovingly ask my daughter to stop her Cirque du Soleil routine on the kitchen chairs, she grins at me. And then cackles. Which is simultaneously hilarious and deeply unhelpful.
I don’t want to be stressy. I don’t want to be shouty. I don’t want my own emotions to get in the way of my parenting.
Maybe I’m being too hard on myself? Maybe this is just a rough patch.
But I’ll keep trying. I’ll keep reading the articles. I’ll keep biting my lip before the growl escapes.
Because I don’t want to be an angry mum.
And God help me, I don’t want to be a shouty mum.
Sometimes it is okay to communicate with your child that mummy just needs a minute. I often say that, make sure they are safe with toys and take myself off for 5 minutes of just being myself, in the quiet. We can’t keep walking the tightrope of being close to being the shouty mum we don’t want to be if we don’t look after ourselves and do something about extracting ourselves from a situation which is breaking us!! Sometimes it is the Rice Krispies, sometimes it is the 400th mumma and sometimes we just slept badly and don’t have much to give. It is all normal.
If it’s any consolation, I have one and I have had an outburst of tears and anger this morning. Not because she’s done anything wrong, but because I am so overwhelmed and angry at how much my life has changed, how much I have to consider before doing ANYTHING AT ALL, how little money I have left at the end of the month and relying on my husband to pay for anything “fun” (which pre-child would have been considered “normal”. I want my independence and choices back, and no one told me this would all change the second my daughter arrived.
I wouldn’t change having her for the world, but I’m not me anymore. I’m everyone else, and everyone else’s brain, but not me. And I’m sad about it.