Hey all.
Thanks all for the sweet comments about my sister and her situation. She’s feeling great, and I’ll be sure to keep you posted on what happens with the girls. As of right now, they’re still with us. In fact we’re packing up this weekend for a big- HUGE- family camping trip to celebrate my brother in law’s birthday. There’ll be 8 adults, 12 kids, and 5 tents.
You can wish us luck after you stop laughing.
So, tonight I’d like to write about something that I’ve been thinking about for a while: anger. It’s not talked about often, but I’ve noticed it’s a theme among mothers. At the park, at playgroups, at Girls’ Night Out, in our conversations, in our rants, and even in our jokes, anger is often the bottom line.
I remember waaaaaaay back in one of my college Sociology classes, the professor mentioned something about a formal study that found that women who identified their occupations as “mothers” reported feeling more angry than any other occupation. I guess I made note of it, because I still remember it being said, but I didn’t think much about it beyond class because, well, at the time I wasn’t a mom so my attitude was all “Who cares? When is he going to start explaining the male psyche? That’s information I could use.”
So, obviously now I’m a mom. And I care. And I know we’re not supposed to talk about it because moms are supposed to be all sweet and quiet and nurturing and long suffering. Don’t worry, I’m all those things too, but I’d have to ask you have to throw anger into the mix as well. Let’s face it, I can’t be all those things without being a little pissed off about it.
It’s taken 5 years of stay at home mommy experience, but I think that I may have got the anger thing figured out. I believe that what makes moms crazy is the simple idea of input vs. output. You see, generally, when you spend time and energy on something, you do it because there is going to be a payoff. You scrub counters so you can have a clean kitchen, you clean floors so your feet don’t stick to the tile, and you do laundry so you can get rid of the pile of dirty clothes (I freely admit that I do laundry purely for the sake of getting rid of the pile. Clean clothes are just a side benefit).
Now, I can’t speak for all the stay at home mother’s out there, but I can tell you what my experience is. I clean the counters and inevitably some little person comes along and spills a juice or dumps a Crayola mega pack all over the place. Or it’s time for another meal. Or playdough project. Or snack. I will spend a full 45 minutes sweeping and mopping the 1000 square feet of tile in my house, only to have the dog come in and shed all over the place, followed by the teenager walking his bike through the kitchen to the garage, followed by 6 little dirty feet who were just playing in the muddy yard. It takes me 2 days to do laundry for this family of six, and no sooner will I put the last sock away in a drawer do I turn around and see that the laundry basket is already half full.
It doesn’t sound so bad as it’s put in the above paragraph, but you have to understand that this stuff happens day in, day out, for weeks, months, and now years.
Didn’t someone define insanity as doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results? No wonder moms feel crazy. I clean, I clean, I clean- and while I’m cleaning I’m having circular conversations about why we have belly buttons and I’m scheduling naps and cooking the next meal and helping with homework and I’m being nurturing and patient through it all. Then I’ll see a little person wipe their macaroni and cheese covered hand on a wall and I’ll go ballistic because OH MY GOD I WILL NEVER GET CAUGHT UP THIS HOUSE WILL ALWAYS BE A DISGUSTING STY THEY’RE ALL WORKING AGAINST ME AND TRYING TO MAKE ME INSANE.
Not everyday. But there are many days like that.
And I love the older people who tell you that you shouldn’t worry about housework so much. They’ll say that they made that mistake and now their children are grown and they realize in hindsight that they should’ve spent more time enjoying their children. I appreciate their wisdom and insight, and I do make it a point to enjoy my children, but the truth is that they’ve forgotten about the circular conversations about bellybuttons and homework help. If they could go back in time and do it again, they would be forced to care about housework because the truth is, stepping in a pile of crunchy cereal that was left on the floor while in the midst of all kinds of other craziness is enough to send a person over the edge.
You may be asking why I don’t just have other household members help, and the answer is I do. I’m a big believer in autonomy and independence. Once my kids are big enough to handle a chore, they more or less do it. Furthermore, when my husband is home, we split the work and help each other. But it’s still my show that I’m running. I’m the one that is responsible and therefore, I am the one that feels the craziness from the never-endingness of it all. Mr. C feels it sometimes, but mostly he’s baffled about why I’ll start yelling at him when he tries to put a perfectly still-clean pair of jeans into the laundry.
Do I sound terrible and high strung? What kind of person goes nutso over spilled juice or dirty laundry? I hate this anger and I worried for a long time that I was the only one, but then I had a friend- who’s also a neighbor- come over. She was sitting at my white ceramic tiled island counter and she asked how I felt about it (the tile), since she has the same kind in her house. I casually replied “I don’t like it much. Too hard to keep clean.” To which she nodded solemnly nodded, narrowed her eyes and said, “Tacy, some days I want to take a bat to it.”
Hallelujah, I ain’t the only one.
Anyway, there is a point to this post beyond me bitching about housework. I, my friends, have found a pretty good outlet for my anger. Wednesday night my friend and I walked into the Coachella Valley Boxing Club. This was hugely intimidating because a) We were one of the few women in there, one of the few white girls in there, and definitely the only mommies in there. b) It was a boxing club. People hit each other. For fun.
So, once I got over the feeling of how stupid I looked and felt, I enjoyed the workout. The only bummer was that our trainer didn’t let us use the bags this time. He said we need to go get our own gloves. So that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to go buy a pair of pink Everlast boxing gloves and every Monday and Wednesday night, you will find me there, at the boxing club, hitting a bag as hard as I can. Over and over and over again.
This mama’s gonna knock you out.
(Not really, but it seemed like a good way to end this post.)
You all have a good night.
Thanks all for the sweet comments about my sister and her situation. She’s feeling great, and I’ll be sure to keep you posted on what happens with the girls. As of right now, they’re still with us. In fact we’re packing up this weekend for a big- HUGE- family camping trip to celebrate my brother in law’s birthday. There’ll be 8 adults, 12 kids, and 5 tents.
You can wish us luck after you stop laughing.
So, tonight I’d like to write about something that I’ve been thinking about for a while: anger. It’s not talked about often, but I’ve noticed it’s a theme among mothers. At the park, at playgroups, at Girls’ Night Out, in our conversations, in our rants, and even in our jokes, anger is often the bottom line.
I remember waaaaaaay back in one of my college Sociology classes, the professor mentioned something about a formal study that found that women who identified their occupations as “mothers” reported feeling more angry than any other occupation. I guess I made note of it, because I still remember it being said, but I didn’t think much about it beyond class because, well, at the time I wasn’t a mom so my attitude was all “Who cares? When is he going to start explaining the male psyche? That’s information I could use.”
So, obviously now I’m a mom. And I care. And I know we’re not supposed to talk about it because moms are supposed to be all sweet and quiet and nurturing and long suffering. Don’t worry, I’m all those things too, but I’d have to ask you have to throw anger into the mix as well. Let’s face it, I can’t be all those things without being a little pissed off about it.
It’s taken 5 years of stay at home mommy experience, but I think that I may have got the anger thing figured out. I believe that what makes moms crazy is the simple idea of input vs. output. You see, generally, when you spend time and energy on something, you do it because there is going to be a payoff. You scrub counters so you can have a clean kitchen, you clean floors so your feet don’t stick to the tile, and you do laundry so you can get rid of the pile of dirty clothes (I freely admit that I do laundry purely for the sake of getting rid of the pile. Clean clothes are just a side benefit).
Now, I can’t speak for all the stay at home mother’s out there, but I can tell you what my experience is. I clean the counters and inevitably some little person comes along and spills a juice or dumps a Crayola mega pack all over the place. Or it’s time for another meal. Or playdough project. Or snack. I will spend a full 45 minutes sweeping and mopping the 1000 square feet of tile in my house, only to have the dog come in and shed all over the place, followed by the teenager walking his bike through the kitchen to the garage, followed by 6 little dirty feet who were just playing in the muddy yard. It takes me 2 days to do laundry for this family of six, and no sooner will I put the last sock away in a drawer do I turn around and see that the laundry basket is already half full.
It doesn’t sound so bad as it’s put in the above paragraph, but you have to understand that this stuff happens day in, day out, for weeks, months, and now years.
Didn’t someone define insanity as doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results? No wonder moms feel crazy. I clean, I clean, I clean- and while I’m cleaning I’m having circular conversations about why we have belly buttons and I’m scheduling naps and cooking the next meal and helping with homework and I’m being nurturing and patient through it all. Then I’ll see a little person wipe their macaroni and cheese covered hand on a wall and I’ll go ballistic because OH MY GOD I WILL NEVER GET CAUGHT UP THIS HOUSE WILL ALWAYS BE A DISGUSTING STY THEY’RE ALL WORKING AGAINST ME AND TRYING TO MAKE ME INSANE.
Not everyday. But there are many days like that.
And I love the older people who tell you that you shouldn’t worry about housework so much. They’ll say that they made that mistake and now their children are grown and they realize in hindsight that they should’ve spent more time enjoying their children. I appreciate their wisdom and insight, and I do make it a point to enjoy my children, but the truth is that they’ve forgotten about the circular conversations about bellybuttons and homework help. If they could go back in time and do it again, they would be forced to care about housework because the truth is, stepping in a pile of crunchy cereal that was left on the floor while in the midst of all kinds of other craziness is enough to send a person over the edge.
You may be asking why I don’t just have other household members help, and the answer is I do. I’m a big believer in autonomy and independence. Once my kids are big enough to handle a chore, they more or less do it. Furthermore, when my husband is home, we split the work and help each other. But it’s still my show that I’m running. I’m the one that is responsible and therefore, I am the one that feels the craziness from the never-endingness of it all. Mr. C feels it sometimes, but mostly he’s baffled about why I’ll start yelling at him when he tries to put a perfectly still-clean pair of jeans into the laundry.
Do I sound terrible and high strung? What kind of person goes nutso over spilled juice or dirty laundry? I hate this anger and I worried for a long time that I was the only one, but then I had a friend- who’s also a neighbor- come over. She was sitting at my white ceramic tiled island counter and she asked how I felt about it (the tile), since she has the same kind in her house. I casually replied “I don’t like it much. Too hard to keep clean.” To which she nodded solemnly nodded, narrowed her eyes and said, “Tacy, some days I want to take a bat to it.”
Hallelujah, I ain’t the only one.
Anyway, there is a point to this post beyond me bitching about housework. I, my friends, have found a pretty good outlet for my anger. Wednesday night my friend and I walked into the Coachella Valley Boxing Club. This was hugely intimidating because a) We were one of the few women in there, one of the few white girls in there, and definitely the only mommies in there. b) It was a boxing club. People hit each other. For fun.
So, once I got over the feeling of how stupid I looked and felt, I enjoyed the workout. The only bummer was that our trainer didn’t let us use the bags this time. He said we need to go get our own gloves. So that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to go buy a pair of pink Everlast boxing gloves and every Monday and Wednesday night, you will find me there, at the boxing club, hitting a bag as hard as I can. Over and over and over again.
This mama’s gonna knock you out.
(Not really, but it seemed like a good way to end this post.)
You all have a good night.
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