we all go a little mad sometimes

We all go a little mad sometimes.

What I'm not going to say is

give yourself a break.

You're only human.

I won't join that chorus.

I don’t like that song.

Do you ever see pictures in the news

of a mother who's hurt her child?

Orange-jumpsuit,

glassy eyes?

Somebody says,

"What a monster."

Somebody says,

"Can you imagine?"

Do you ever feel pity?

Do you ever feel

dread?

Me, too.

What I'm not going to say is

you're not like HER.

Don't worry about that.

You would never…

I've been a parent long enough

to pray those promises,

rather than make them.

Holding my newborn son in my arms

I cried and told my husband

I was afraid I'd hurt the baby.

"Really?"

He looked at me

like I was yelling at a store manager

with a gun holstered on my hip:

measuring the distance between us,

measuring me.

"I don't think you would."

"No," I said, "I wouldn't.

But I might become

someone

who would."

When Somebody told you

that having a baby changes you forever,

you imagined you'd start saying "fiddlesticks”

and develop brand loyalty to paper towels,

start wearing high-rise jeans.

You imagined you'd be the yourself

that's cast and costumed

for a Swiffer commercial.

Then you had the baby

and you realized for the first time

what changed forever means.

Your organs migrated.

Your bones could bend.

No part of you was untouched.

Including your kindness.

Including your mind. 

The world was suddenly strange;

you, a stranger.

I was born spitting nails and slapping back offers of help.

I climbed to the top of a ladder in a cherry tree

before I could eat a cherry

or say the word "tree."

And suddenly,

I didn’t believe I could do

anything.

What else could be lost?

What else that I was sure of

could leave me?

What about the fixed part of my humanity,

that does

not

hurt

children?

Having a baby changes you forever,

Somebody said.

They forgot to add,

"but you won't lose your mind.”

Or maybe Somebody didn’t forget.

Maybe Somebody has been a parent long enough

to pray their promises, too.

You’ve felt the occupation?

Lusty rage pours into your fingers

curling them into fists

full of a child’s arm.

Me, too.

I’ve checked, shaking,

and exhaled deeply

when

thank God

there was no bruise.

What I’m not going to say is

you’re such a great mom.

Your kids know you love them.

I will not try to make you comfortable

in a place you do not want to call home.

Even though it seems to be

the kind thing to say,

reflexively: “it’s okay.”

Somebody told us, 

kids have to learn

what happens when they push buttons.

Somebody told us not to worry about it. 

Somebody said, 

don't be too hard on yourself. 

We are worried about what we’d have to do

to earn the concern of these nice people

who seem to think we are like them.

They've seen us patiently smother a tantrum

with silence, back rubs, patience.

They've eaten our homemade bread.

They're sure we're just

being hard on ourselves.

We know

how scary we can be.

When no one else is around

at home

where the children bend us

like bones,

where we scream.

We are worried they think we’re exaggerating

when we say, “I really lost it this morning.”

Because they smile at us and say,

“I understand. I snapped at Sophia,

‘young lady,

get downstairs

this

instant!’

I really lost my temper.”

We think,

you are nice

but you do not understand;

When I lose it,

I can’t remember

what I said.

They think the “it” we lost was our temper.

That’s the difference between temper and rage:

In a temper, you slam the door.

In a rage, the rage slams it

with the arm you left behind

when you stepped out

for a minute.

For some air

when it got

too hot in there.

What I’m not going to say is

Everybody gets mad.

Give yourself a break.

Kids are annoying.

I’m going to say:

I never hungered for the sound of a voice

I hated

until I met my son,

the love of my life,

my nucleus,

my nemesis,

the nails on my chalkboard.

He turned me into one of those bugs

drawn inexorably to the humming light

that will consume it in its ecstasy.

But I can’t blame the light for shining. 

I can wait out a tantrum,

humming "you are my sunshine,"

safe.

I can be safe.

I can be not.

You, too?

I'm so glad I found you,

here in the place where everything you do to your child

is two stories in your head:

what I have done,

and

what was done to me.

Both stories are yours to tell,

but you only get to write one.

My friend,

your guilt isn’t crazy.

You have reason for regret.

You have already hurt your child

as you were hurt

when you were small

and hid from your loving parent.

You already know that you don’t have to hurt your child

to be heartbroken

by your child’s fear that you might.

Before the baby

changed you forever,

you thought

I’ll never scare my child like that.

What a monster.

Can you imagine.

You thought

Kids are annoying

and they need to know what happens

when they push buttons.

Then you realized that bones bend

and loving parents lose their minds

for seconds at a time.

Loving parents open bedroom doors

walk to their sleeping children

lie their heads on the pillows

and say

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

baby.

You touch his hair

determinedly gentle,

as if fingers could clean the wound
that he may be dreaming 
bad dreams
about you.

I will never hurt you.

Loving parents cry.

They pray the promises they can’t make:

I’ll never scare you again.

You can’t stop seeing

the way your toddling baby’s hands flew to his chest,

the flinch

so soft,

so small;

the instinctive gesture of defense

just

nothing

against the slippery beast of rage

that shot out of your mouth 

screaming.

Now you know

all loving parents

are sometimes monsters.

I won’t say

cut yourself some slack

because it is your job

to get better.

It is terribly, mercifully true:

we can change

forever. 

I will say

you are not past forgiveness.

You are there,

now.

I will say

me, too.