Baby Rage

I will be the first to tell you I've got a temper. A lightning fast, razor sharp, gone-as-fast-as-it-came temper. Before I was a mother, I chocked it up to immaturity, perhaps something that I would grow out of. Now that I'm older (only slightly) and a mother of two, I've come to accept that perhaps my temper may be here to stay. Except, in certain circumstances, I now like to refer to it as my "Baby Rage".

Let me explain.

Baby Rage is the instant of fury that strikes me with the intensity of a bolt of lightning whenever one of my babies does something totally innocent and completely awful. There are moments in time when I look at my son or daughter after they've committed a sin of the Baby Rage variety and I think to myself "WHY are you torturing me? How do you even know about mind games at your age?"

I know I'm not alone here. I know there are other mothers and fathers out there who have felt this way but might never admit it. I also know there are first-timer pregnant mothers out there who may read this and think "Oh my sweet goodness, what kind of mother feels RAGE towards her own child? That's awful and I'll NEVER feel that way myself!" Or older Mothers, looking back on their child-rearing years through rose-colored bifocals contemplating to themselves "My children never once did one bad thing. What's to be angry about?"

I would never never never never never never harm my child. Never. But I do remember very clearly during one of my first few Baby Rage sensations I felt with my son remarking to my husband "I was so angry, I felt like gently placing him down in his crib and throwing myself through the window." Not that I'd ever do that. I'm far too afraid of heights for that. I'm more of a stomp-my-foot-and-pout kinda gal. I was just using fancy illustrative words to convey my Baby Rage to my lovely husband who had missed that wonderful episode blissfully unaware at work, and, so I assumed at the time, drinking coffee with colleagues, twirling their moustaches and chuckling over the cost of pistachios. You know, doctor stuff.

Anyway, for those of you who can't FATHOM this type of emotion, let me describe to you some common causes and scenarios of Baby Rage. Picture this:

You are trying desperately to leave your house, to which you've been bound for days. Desperate for some adult conversation (even if it is with the high school drop out working the Monday day shift at the grocery store), you try your best to look presentable without ACTUALLY having to take a shower. You creatively comb and arrange your hair into a ponytail so that it looks decent, and not the 3-days-unwashed mess it really is. Throwing on some mostly-clean clothes, you begin to dress your infant (pretty straight forward), then start in on your toddler. Training pamper, socks, tee shirt, pants, coat, hat, mitts and FINALLY boots. You are SO CLOSE to leaving. One boot is on. Yes, you're nearly there. Then, at the very last possible moment, as you're helping your toddler put on their second boot, he grabs the top of your head and pulls, so that your greasy dirty hair comes out of your carefully arranged pony tail, leaving you look like you fell off the bus and rolled into a ditch. And? Your comb is upstairs. BABY RAGE.

Need more help understanding? Oh, I've got more my friend.

You spend the entire morning at the pool with your young child. Despite the fact that you are tired and groggy yourself, you decide to invest the effort into a fun filled morning at the pool so that after lunch, you can both crash out for a nice long nap. You wrangle them into their swimwear. You wrangle them all over the pool. You help them play. You step in to avoid fights with other tots. You break your back wading around the 3-inch deep tot pool, all the while freezing your fatty thighs off. It's a grand old time. Finally, you get them home, have some lunch, then everyone settles in for a nap. Once the wee one is asleep, you decide to clean up the lunch dishes, and hey, why not, throw your swimming things into the laundry. After checking email, taking chicken out for supper, and sweeping the floor, you think gee I should really lay down now as it's been 35 minutes since nap time began. Tired to your very soul, you peel back the sheets of your comfy inviting bed. The moment your head hits the pillow, "WAHHHHH" goes the monitor, and nap time is over. And it's 3 hours before your husband will be home. BABY RAGE.

Finally,

You decide to dust off your mop and try your hand at housework again after a few days (weeks? months?) reprieve. During nap time, you get out the broom and as quietly as you can, sweep the floors, then get out the Mr. Clean and begin to mop. You move chairs, you lift rugs, heck, you even move the SOFA to really give the floors the loving scrub they deserve after so much neglect. Pouring the dirty water down the toilet and looking about your sparkling clean home, you think to yourself, "Now was that really that hard? You should do this more often, look how much better the WHOLE house looks when the floors are clean!" A little later your child wakes from their afternoon nap and before you know it you're all having supper together, and this is the first time in history your child learns how to use his finger to press down on the top of his spill-proof sippycup and pour milk ALLLLL over the used-to-be clean floors. BABY RAGE.

-TDW