The Boiling Waters of a Mother

The rage we are not supposed to feel.

“For women who have children, motherhood becomes defining, and the love that we feel for our children is often overwhelming.” - Soraya Chemaly, Rage Becomes Her.

It felt like just a typical overwhelm, the type that just lays below the surface of your skin. The kind that, if you pay close enough attention to, feels somewhat like a humming. A humming that I often wonder might carry a tune. Some weeks, this experience is louder and more noticeable, where at any given moment, I am either called to collapse or experience the forbidden yet very well-known experience to many mothers, The Rage. 

The Rage, although familiar to me, like many things about being a mother, would not make it into this part of my story. I have my tools. I often plea that I can take a breath, change environments, get some air, write, move my body, and even ask for help. The problem with what I am naming as The Rage is that it happens so quickly that it often feels as though there is no time between the irritant, the landing, and the sharp bite.  

If only (I often search for the end of this sentence). If only I had a break.  If only I had a few moments alone. If only I were able to walk by the kitchen and not notice the piles of unwashed dishes. If only I were able to move through my bedroom and pretend I didn't see the two overfilling laundry baskets that, at this point, I am unsure are clean or dirty. If only I hadn't wasted five minutes lost on my phone while telling myself I was taking my break (and somehow believing it while knowing so much better). If only I didn't forget to write that important email. If only everyone weren't sick — again. If only I had more sleep. If only I had more time this morning to write, to stretch, to wake up. If only I could find something easy for lunch in the refrigerator without somehow noticing the piles of dishes again. This load is real, and the reality is that for me, at times, it piles up inside, one dish, one cold, one dirty sock at a time. 

The list, unfortunately, could go on and on. However, I will spare you the details. Some notable subjects that could be added would be anything related to your career, your relationships, feelings of worthiness, your body, your purpose, your health, your home, your community, the earth, injustices, and suffering all around, and on and on it goes. 

All the while, while my face attempts softness and my body attempts ease — the humming keeps humming. 

My son is four, and I can honestly say that when The Rage visits, it is one of the most painful, soul-crushing experiences I have had to feel since becoming a mother. What follows after my sharp bite is the deepest shame, a shame that reaches the depths of me, of my well, or maybe it is even birthed from there. The shame tells me I should have known better. I should be better. Society tells me I should know better. I should be better. My son's eyes tell me I should know better. I should be better. Yet, the prickly sharpness in my nervous system, or in the words "enough" that get screamed out during a moment of overflowing overwhelm, what I see is a darkness, a darkness that scares me. 

In her brilliant book, Body Full of Stars,

Molly Caro May

takes us on her journey of navigating physical complications and injuries after the birth of her child. Throughout her story, she grapples with postpartum rage and the changing dynamics of her relationship with her husband, her body, and motherhood. Needless to say, I devoured her book in two nights. In it, Molly writes, "Let's go ahead and blame the mother. Tell the pregnant woman she must eat, feel, and birth perfectly for the well-being of the fetus. She inevitably fails at this but still holds out hope she will be a glowing mother of her baby. Then, at the peak of her sleep deprivation, possible vaginal collapse, physical depletion from nursing, and isolation from a partner who doesn't "get it," she gets a little angry at the world. But do not feel your anger, honey. Transmute it, with breathing exercises and yoga, you can't do because you either can't move that way anymore or there is no extra time. Become superhuman, even though no one is meant to be not human. Whatever you do, do not expose your dear baby to your darkness. You are not allowed to have darkness."

Yet, what happens when the truth — when reality is not allowed, when reality is forced into the dark? For me, it becomes internalized; I become in-raged, and if I don't catch myself quickly, it can slowly turn to a feeling of helplessness, for having a lack of control, even with your words, can be terrifying. So many times, I try to hide it, tuck it away somewhere while also knowing it will be felt again, but hopefully just not seen.  

In the book Mom Rage, a book that I am feeling quite seen by, Minna Dubin writes, "As mothers we know we are supposed to be nurturing, patient, gentle; never rageful. We try to hide our wrath, hold it in, keep it quiet." 

And what I have learned so far, is that holding it and keeping quiet is not the answer — trust me, sometimes I really wish it was. 

If you were to ask me what kind of parent I think I am, I would tell you that I am soft, warm, playful, loving, kind, and intentional. And in the same sentence, I would say to you that I am tired, overwhelmed, scared for our world, learning to trust others with my child; and that sometimes I feel angry, lost, and confused. All of which can easily become entangled inside and produce the forbidden yet real experience of rage. A rage that, if I didn't know any better, I would think was because of who I am. Although I sometimes feel this way, my deeper knowing aligns with what else Minna writes, "Mom rage stems from the overwhelming stress and impossible expectations of modern motherhood, combined with a debilitating lack of support from within the family structure and societal systems." 

Two mornings ago were hard. The kind of hard where you almost feel like you are going to run out of your skin. Like nothing could stop your internal waters from boiling. We woke up later than usual for school. My husband had been home sick with a cold for the previous two days while simultaneously I tried to juggle — life. In the background of this scene, my mind and heart are somewhere else; they are on Israel and Palestine, on confusion, on fear, on loss, on grief.  

My son, who is a feeler, I imagine, is picking up on the very thin thread that lines what capacity I had left and begins to refuse to put on his rain boots. He doesn't want to; he doesn't like them; the falling leaves always end up getting stuck, and he can't run. I hear him. And to his defense, I do keep having to pick out many things that fall into his boots, but we were running late, very late, and my waters were boiling. 

It happened so quickly. The boiling waters rose up, making their way to my throat, and out my mouth. They poured. "Enough," I yelled, "This isn't okay. We don't have time." "If you can't put on your boots, then you are going to lose frozen blueberries after school.” (Seriously, I have obviously lost control). "I don't want to hear it. There is nothing we can do right now. You can wear your other shoes that are going to get wet and then you will be uncomfortable if you want. But right now, we have to go. This isn't okay. You are not listening. Let's go!"   

I wish I could tell you how I managed to get him out of the door, or the look on his face, or his response at all, but I can't. I was too consumed. I was too desperate for relief.   

After getting him to school, I did the walk of shame home. My head hung heavy, and my heart hurt even more. What happened? What did I do? Is he going to be okay? Are we going to be okay? Am I going to mess him up? Is this where the wounding begins?

So many thoughts overwhelm my overwhelmed state. I get home. I cry to my husband, who reassures me that I am a good mother, that my son knows that, that stress is real and getting by day by day can sometimes be challenging. He hugs me. I cry some more, then realize that it hurts so horribly because I love my son so deeply. At the same, I notice anger, an anger that tells me it is all so much to hold — too much, in fact.

In one quick moment, I hear a small voice coming from somewhere, “Stay with love.” I somehow manage to listen for just a moment. I place my hand on my heart, and I weep. There was nothing to solve at that moment; there were no major ideas on different parenting tips or tools or how to fight this broken system, just plain old love. For him and for me.  

What fights the darkness sometimes is more light, I try to tell myself. 

A light I will share with my son when he gets home from school. 

I will tell him I am sorry, that I was having big feelings, and that I love him so so deeply. 

It will cool my waters.

It will open my heart. 

His eyes and soft body will reassure me of his love.

And it will remind me that when The Rage comes to visit again because it will, I will be able to say I am sorry and I love you to both of us.