The Good Mother and her Evil Twin

What they don't tell you when you sign up for motherhood (or perhaps what they all tell you but you just don't believe, especially if you've combined your lifelong desire to be a mama with rather unhealthy perfectionist leanings) is that there will be a staggering number of days in which you feel like -- pardon my French -- a total fuckup.

There's the mother I try to be: unfailingly patient (I can hear everyone I know laughing at this, but I think both teaching and mothering have mellowed me at least a little bit in the last ten years), relentlessly good-natured, kind, laid-back, understanding, and able to find the humor in every situation almost immediately, as opposed to two days later when I write about it.

Then there's that mother's evil twin, her doppelganger who appears uninvited far too often for the Good Mother's liking, most recently yesterday afternoon.

Suzannah spent the day with me at school. It was a non-student day, meaning she was off but I wasn't because I had a staff in-service day. Since I haven't yet been able to convince my parents to relocate from Montana to our neighborhood solely for my convenience so that my daughter can spend such days with Grandpa and Grandma instead of at school with me, I brought her along. I've done this before, but last time I had a lot of "free" work time in my classroom, and I have a few toys in my bottom desk drawer, lots of paper and markers and colored pencils, and a giant white board that can amuse my daughter for quite a long time. Yesterday, though, I had actual meetings, actual sessions with other teachers, sessions in which Suzannah would have to sit quietly with me instead of bouncing all over my room and making cheerful conversation. Matt dropped her off with a backpack full of paper and crayons and snacks, though, and it was actually fine. First of all, she arrived at school wearing a leprechaun mask (complete with orange construction paper beard) she'd made at kindergarten the day before, so everyone fell in love with her right away. And then she was awfully well behaved, sitting in a desk next to me and coloring for nearly ninety minutes (the length of the first session). She made a picture for one of the guidance counselors and a friend of mine who teaches Spanish, as well as a couple for me. We went to lunch with two of my good friends, friends she knows, and she quietly ate her lunch and colored while we chatted. In the afternoon, she made friends with the attendance secretary (who charmed her with candy and a collection of wind-up toys behind her desk). She was getting pretty squirrely by the time we left, but even then she told me she wished we could stay just a little longer so she could draw on my white board some more.

I was prepared for a little chaos, to have to skip a few sessions, whatever. But I really enjoyed having my little girl hang out with me for the day, truth be told. I love watching her make friends with the people I work with; I love watching her hug the friends she already knows; I love it when other grown-ups are kind to her. She's just turning into such an utterly fantastic little person.

But then at home this utterly fantastic little person might decide that she's tired of holding it together so well all day long, and so she might start to make some bossy and unreasonable demands when her mother is frantically making a grocery list before picking up the toddler, and when these unreasonable demands are not met immediately, there might be some stomping and some tears and then everything just goes to hell.

This is the point at which the Good Mother who can give such wise and compassionate advice on the internet, who fancies herself so patient, so willing to meet kids where they are, who understands that all of the most infuriating sides of children are really, totally developmentally appropriate, just Loses Her Shit. I mean, it was horrible and I don't really want to talk about it, but let's just say that my husband came home later that evening and expressed some bewilderment about why the battery cover on the remote control seemed to be missing and his sheepish wife had to admit that she'd thrown it and it went flying somewhere. (Neither of us have been able to find it yet.)

I can tell you exactly how I should have handled it. And even while it was happening, while my daughter and I were both just entirely losing our minds, it was like I could see the alternate ending playing out in my mind at the same time -- the one in which I keep my voice very calm, the one in which she doesn't necessarily even change her behavior (because let's face it, she is five years old and I am the adult) but I am able to weather the storm with patience! And grace! And I am not rattled at all, because I know exactly what this is about (feeling exhausted, a little unmoored by the unfamiliar surroundings, holding it together so well for six solid hours, and finally having a safe space in which to be five years old and just done) and I understand that this is a perfectly normal reaction to fatigue and being shuffled around to so many places and being expected to behave, behave, behave all day long! And yet -- and yet. The battery cover for the remote control is probably buried in Isaac's box of trains, and it isn't because the five-year-old put it there.

I've always believed that it is extremely important to be able to apologize to my children when I lose my patience like that, no matter how frustrated I am, no matter how "justified" I feel in my reaction at the time. It's not easy, because I'm as stubborn as my daughter, and she knows just how to bring me right to the precarious edge of my sanity. But it's important. And as I drove my daughter, sniffly and sullen, to the grocery store, I apologized to her for losing my temper and behaving so badly. But I was still angry, and I was still trying to combine my apology with a lecture, and so my little blonde fury merely clutched a Kleenex in her fist and glared out the window.

I glanced at her in the rearview mirror a few times and felt about two inches tall.

At the store, I was still brisk, short, impatient. I walked quickly, more quickly than I needed to, barking at her to hurry up, we needed to pick up Isaac, we needed to get home. There were none of our usual grocery store rituals; she did not ask me if she could "scale" the produce I picked up or point out things that looked interesting, like the huge boxes of rainbow goldfish crackers or the pillow pets that looked like Thomas the Train. We went through the shortest checkout line I could find, and then I slung the canvas bag over one shoulder and grabbed my daughter's hand and headed for the exit, all Mom-like efficiency.

But then I stopped, right there in the middle of the store. I felt, suddenly, very silly, and not in a good way. I started walking again, slowly, not dragging my daughter, not even encouraging her to walk faster, just matching my pace to hers.

We have this little code, Suzannah and I. When we're walking together somewhere, especially if there are a lot of people around, I give her hand three little squeezes. It means "I love you." I used to whisper that with each little squeeze -- I (squeeze) love (squeeze) you (squeeze). Now, though, I don't need to say anything. She knows.

So we walked, slowly, towards the exit. She wasn't looking at me. I relaxed my grip on her, but I gave her hand three little squeezes. Little, quick, but firm.

She didn't look up, but I watched her face. Her hair hid her half-smile, and then it came, the undeserved grace: three little squeezes back.