Duchess Kate. Kate Middleton. The glorified picture of how I always envisioned myself as a mom…mother…mum. A wardrobe that comes together flawlessly – without a glam squad, I’m sure. The patience of a preschool teacher, that she was probably born with. The ability to look graceful playing rugby. Okay, I’m not too sure if she’s ever tried rugby, but I’m playing the odds that it would come off looking like a well choreographed dance performance. Think ballet, not flashdance.
These are the qualities I wanted and the visions that danced through my head, as I was putting together the mind map of who I wanted to be as a mom. Great choices, am I right? She’s a classy lady, leading the way with kindness and love, despite the constant glare of the spotlight. Not to mention that she’s raising the most photogenic children in all of the land. You know what’s leading my way? My uncontrollable urge to be in control, my desire to be to work on-time (ish), my normally longer emotional fuse (until it’s not) and a hot cup of coffee.
These are just some of the items on my
long list these days. There are more, but if we’re being honest, I don’t really want to put them down in writing. While a lot of times I feel that these wants are necessities, they don’t lead to my proudest mommy moments. Let’s not sugar coat it. Some of these moments can lead me to be scarier than the monster that’s apparently living in my daughter’s closet. I’m surprised she hasn’t told me its name is Mom.
The other day I was running late to work. You like how I made it sound like running late is the anomaly? My daughter still needed her hair done and I was walking around, almost dressed, yelling for her to meet me in the bathroom. Her brother was already in the bathroom, getting ready to wash his toothbrush in the toilet. Don’t worry, his untraditional hygiene strategy was intercepted. She was standing on the step stool, in front of the mirror, and I was attempting to tie her mane back using a clear hair band, the size of an ant’s necklace. Just as I was about to execute the second loop around her baby soft tuft of hair, my daughter’s head makes a hard right. My hand is yanked with her…and I snap (along, with the unforgiving and microscopic hair band).
Definitely not my proudest moment. I yelled. Like really yelled. It was off the charts, not my proudest moment. I can’t even tell you exactly what I said, but the gist was something like “Knock it off. Listen to me. That’s enough”. You ever have one of those moments where after you’re done talking (or yelling), there’s a silence so still, you have the opportunity to look back and actually see yourself? At that moment, I had a bird’s-eye view into the insane woman who was held up in the bathroom. We were not friends. Did the volume of my voice help? Nope. Did my daughter actually do anything wrong? Not at all. That feeling when you’ve lost your poop for no real reason, well, sucks.
It’s just a mom fact that you’re going to lose your poop, at a level that isn’t warranted for the situation. Child running out into the street? Yell like you’ve never yelled before. Child won’t sit still while you’re putting their hair in a pony tail? Mild to medium frustration in the grand scheme of things. Does this mean I’m going to channel my inner Kate Middleton and rid myself of inappropriate yelling from here on out? My inner Kate would say, “Absolutely!” The reality – it’s a pipe dream.
Admitting you got out of hand isn’t a bad lesson to teach your kids. We’re always prompting our kids to say “thank you”, “please”, “I’m sorry”. Motherhood is filled with warranted hypocrisy, but it doesn’t always have to be this way. After my out-of-body moment of mommy guilt subsided and I finally got my daughter’s hair done, I asked my daughter for a hug and I apologized for showing my side of crazy. And with the resilience of Kate Middleton, she hugged me.