AFTER a stressful eight-hour working day followed by an hour-long commute I stand in the bathroom as my five-year-old daughter hops from foot to foot, turning the tap on and off. Everything but brushing her teeth.
“That’s enough,” I say, a hint of irritation creeping into my voice. She stands on her tiptoes and does a projectile spit. It misses the basin.
“Watch what you’re doing!” I wipe it up with toilet paper, thinking about the work I need to catch up on once she is in bed. My daughter drops her toothbrush one, two, three times. She giggles at her own antics.
I slam my palm against the wall. “I’m serious. Stop!”
‘I WANT TO SCREAM AND RIP OPEN PILLOWS, TOSS CHAIRS AND PUNCH WALLS’
I grab the toothbrush out of her mouth. “Why do we have to do this every day? Open!”
I brush her teeth quickly and roughly. She won’t stop moving. “You need to stand still or you’re going to get hurt!”
Five more seconds pass with her body gyrating before the inevitable happens – she accidentally hits the side of her head on the basin. She lets out a howl.
I toss the toothbrush into the sink, sit down on the toilet, put my elbows on my knees and press the heels of my palms into my closed eyes. I know if I speak, I will blow the house down and everyone in it.
Mom rage is an anger so hot it is blinding. But there is a silence, filled with fear, that surrounds it. This fear gets instilled in us through cultural messaging that tells us motherhood is just the best. And if anyone dares to disagree? Shame!
