1-2-3 Mama loses it

I ran away yesterday.

After watching Shawn Joaquin have a 33-minute wailing meltdown, complete with kicks and shrieks and punching of furniture, I was weak. But what had really killed me was my own visceral reaction. I had visions of smacking his head, locking him in a closet, shaking him into silence, bopping his head, knocking him down. I did none of those things and calmly counted 1-2-3-You lose X, though I did cover his mouth at one point when he was particularly loud and had just woken Madelena after only 20 minutes of a long-overdue nap. And he did get a light swat on the bottom that killed me in retrospect but caused no physical pain to him and probably was not even registered in his by-then hysterical head. But inside my own I was seething and ready to scream obscenities and things that would shame him and me years from now. I felt I was millimeters away from being the next headline.

So after he had finally calmed down and was eating a snack as if the world had not nearly ended, I left the house and put the new nanny in charge.

I spent the next two hours deeply depressed and shamed and unable to even look in his eyes. I felt like the world's worst parent, yet still had an unreasonable anger towards him for bringing this out in me, even if it never reached the surface. Especially when only a few hours earlier we had sat like the world's two closest chums, enjoying a shared Jamba Juice in the sunshine, our feet up as we watched the passerby in Montclair.

Everyday we read about horrible things that happen to children, the latest being the tragic and heinous Baby Grace story. We are horrified and sickened, and I find myself in tears nearly every day that I read the paper. We can't believe anyone could hurt an innocent child, done anything to bruise or emotionally torture his or her little body or spirit. But every mom I have talked to has had a moment when the only thing that stood between themselves and a loss of control was the hard-earned wisdom to know when to walk away, run away or take a deep breath and count 1-2-3-You lose X. Most of these moms are in the 30s or 40s and have the inner strength and probably the years of therapy needed to build the inner reserves that silence the little voice screaming "shuuuuuuut uppppppp" as their child screams, open-mouthed and epiglottis flapping in the wind.

Two days ago I spoke to a friend whose daughter has 60 minute screaming fits in which she wails, "I hate you! I wanna break your face!" She is beside herself and unable to sleep because of her own perception of failure as a parent, and her inevitable inability to count 1-2-3 in the face of such wild anger. Another mother told me about yelling at her daughter — who had entertained an entire church congregation by dancing in front while her mother sang — "never dance in church again!" And I have yelled at Shawn Joaquin after he clotheslined his sister with an embrace from behind "STOP HUGGING YOUR SISTER! NOW!" And all of us are embarrassed and ashamed by our raised voices and the absurdity of the words, the visions of smack downs in our head, and the worry that others have witnessed our lack of control.

Yet what we all may need to do is this: give yourself a break. Run away if you have to, be it for some retail therapy or a Jamba Juice or to just walk down the street to visit another mom who will tell you it's all okay. And know that because you are a strong and competent woman and mother, you will never answer to those little voices in your head and as long as they remain there, you're okay. And so is your child who, until brain-reading becomes the latest gadget from Sharper Image, will never know there was a moment when you considered locking him or her in a closet and leaving the house for an extra large caramel macchiato with extra whipped cream.