When I yell at my kid

by Katie Doke Sawatzky | Published 10th October 2014 in Experiments in Life | 1

Credit: Mindaugas Danys, https://www.flickr.com/photos/mindaugasdanys/3766009204/

I never feel failure so acutely as I do when I lose control and yell at my child. When I have absolutely no more patience left and he is screaming to high heaven, if the situation is right, if my partner is away and I’m the only one around to react to it, sometimes I scream right back.

Parents don’t really talk openly about how they lose it with their kids. They acknowledge it happens, but rarely do they volunteer how things really go down. In my experience, unless you’re with close friends you trust, you’re not likely to share the moments when anger and frustration cloud your vision.

Parenting, for me, is a test of endurance. How much do I have in my compassion fuel tank to keep me going today? Usually, because of how my husband and I share childcare, I have a steady flow of opportunities to fuel up that tank: reading, writing, catching up with friends and family over the phone. What I call me-time. This self-investment gives me the energy I need to me to care for my son with patience and understanding.

But then comes the day when I have our son for the majority of my waking hours. If I’ve already spent a lot of time with him in the days before, my tank is running on low and dread begins to descend. As he makes more demands throughout the day, misbehaves openly in front of neighbours, refuses to listen again and again, my reserve is eventually used up. I feel helpless. The behaviour I’m witnessing is so irrational, so brazen, so offensive to my senses and I lose the willpower to act rationally myself.

There’s a commercial where a boy in the grocery store stops throwing his tantrum when his mother starts rolling around on the ground, screaming and yelling, herself. I smirk when I think of it. It’s a creative way of disciplining without resorting to authority. But in my “failure” responses to my child, there’s no creative twist. Just the most hostile voice I can muster, the lowest tone I can project, and the roughest movements I’ve inflicted on another human being (since playing high-school basketball).

In these moments, my child doesn’t snap out of his irrational behaviour like the boy in the grocery store does. No, in these moments my child continues to scream, but now out of a greater sadness. I have his attention but only because I’ve established my power over him. And what I see in his eyes isn’t remorse or penitence, it’s fear. Plain, horrible, ugly fear. He’s scared of me and of my anger.

A parent is supposed to be a model to imitate, someone a child feels respected and safe with, someone who loves unconditionally. I am this person, but when I reach my breaking point, have no more patience or compassion to give, I come face to face with an ugly side of myself I rarely (never?) meet in other areas of my life.

I’ve been trying to figure out why I feel this failure so intensely. I think it has to do with my idea of a successful parent (always nurturing, always teaching, constantly lavishing wisdom and patience) and my unwillingness to accept my own limits in the face of the intense demands of my child. It’s not okay to yell at my child and scare him with my anger, but it’s understandable that I reach that point.

I know what to do to avoid getting to that breaking point and most of the time I avoid it. But when I fail to be compassionate and kind to my child, I’m always amazed at what happens afterwards.

When I’ve let my anger show and walked away, into the next room, after his timeout is done he walks over to me, climbs on my lap, hugs me, and says, “Mommy, are you okay?” I apologize for yelling at him, for scaring him. He nods and also says he’s sorry. It’s a moment of grace I’m ashamed to have paid the price for, but grateful for all the same. I look into his eyes and tell him I made a mistake and somehow I am telling myself, too. And that acknowledgement is powerful. I won’t meet the standard I hold myself to and that’s okay. I can rest in the fact that, despite my failure, love still remains.

Katie Doke Sawatzky is the Geez Experiments Editor. She lives in Vancouver.