From Rage to Resilience: Parenting Edition
I was seconds away from screaming at my sweet, innocent, sick toddler yesterday.
We made it through a week of intensive potty training, pants off, quarantined in our home as the New England temperatures continued to drop. We made it through the holidays and almost two weeks without childcare. We were stir crazy and fried.
This weekend we had outings, play dates, and grandparent visits planned. We would leave the house, see other humans, start living again (parenthood style, but hey)!
And then, somehow, my son spiked a fever. High. The sickest we’ve ever seen him.
Two days and two nights spent holding him through his hot, trembling tears. Rotating and timing medications, holding our breath for when one would fade before the other kicked in. Taking shifts of sleep. Eating frozen food. Worrying. Watching the clock tick. Exhausted.
And then yesterday morning, what we’d been waiting for. The fever broke.
Breakfast, giggles, “mama, play blocks!”
Relief. The possibility of daycare tomorrow. Exhausted.
After nap time books and lullabies, I quietly closed his bedroom door, hearing his little snores as I tiptoed out. I stood in the hallway and let out a giant exhale.
The next 2+ hours would belong to me, each minute precious, needed like oxygen.
I had just heated up my lunch and was a few minutes into my podcast when I heard the cry from the monitor.
Rage consumed me. He cannot be awake. I’m supposed to have more time!
I slammed the monitor down on the couch and yelled at the screen “go the f*ck to sleep!!”
He wasn’t supposed to be sick!
This marathon was supposed to be over!
None of it was supposed to be this way!
Before I could make it to the stairs, my husband stepped in. As he walked up, I screamed into a pillow.
Rage is a familiar, unwelcome guest that used to permanently reside in my body, bubbling up fast and frequently. A force that once felt beyond my ability to regulate. A hidden, shameful part of my identity.
What I’ve learned in the years spent reckoning with my rage is that underneath the anger is always the belief:
it’s not supposed to be this way.
The helplessness of trying to change something I cannot possibly control.
The inability to accept what is.
I pulled my head up from the pillow, took many slow deep breaths, and had the talk with myself.
“This is so hard. You are overwhelmed. You are exhausted. You are anxious. If only this weren’t happening. But it is happening. It’s supposed to be because it is. And you can do this.”
By the time my son came downstairs, rosy cheeked and snotty, the anger had passed.
I took him from my husband’s arms and held his tender warm body to mine. My husband and I locked eyes.
The fever was back. More miles added to our marathon.
He’s still sick, still home. We’re still in it.
But today feels softer. More compassionate. Less angry.
The load is still heavy.
But accepting what is instead of clinging to what’s supposed to be makes it feel a whole lot easier to carry.
Looking to build more resilience in your life? I’m here to help! Let’s work together.