Warning: Content Might Be Offensive to Good Mothers.

Originally Posted March 17, 2012

Shame

A painful feeling of humiliation or distress caused by the consciousness of wrong or foolish behaviour. (see also; Patti)

I got into it with my daughter today. I started it. She was strapped in in the backseat of the van and couldn't get away. I was childish and ridiculous and had it all been caught on film my shame would only be outweighed by the hue and cry for my hide. I was a bad mom, picking fights for no reason other than the fact there was no one bigger around with whom I could have a fair fracas. I am 50 and she is 9...go ahead, tsk tsk me, I deserve much worse.

I realize these outbursts are motivated by jealously. Utter and complete green-eyed monster stuff. I am jealous of her worry-free, stress-free, joyful life of firsts and wild wonder, of fairies and talking animals and long, long uninterrupted sleeps. When I find myself out in the middle of the pity pool, in the deep waters of self-loathing, fighting the undertow of woe-is-me, not an ounce of strength strength to swim back to sanity I look back over an exhausted shoulder and I see my kids’ effortless lives not as buoyant life preservers I am lucky to have at hand but instead as one more thing to drag me down, the weight of sheer envy an anchor in my worthless arms. I am compelled to point out how easy they have it and how much more grateful they should be. I yell it to be sure they can hear it over there on the deck in their comfy vacation chairs. I have to drag them in and down with me, because I am an ass.

It's awful and repugnant and all the other things I am thinking while I am doing it. My better self stands off to the side and wags her finger but I ignore her. Instead I betray my children with my words and keep at it until they cry. And as heavy as their tears come so does my shame. Shame so thorough I can feel it invade my guts and bowels and heart. 

I dig in and force myself to glance in the rear-view mirror and see her wet eyes. Amazingly where their should be anger there is only guilt because she still trusts that I am right, that she is somehow deserving of this outburst. Then I see my own eyes and see the hag so utterly unworthy of her delicate, uncompromising, unconditional love.

While I am trying to figure out how I can apologize properly a sweet voice from the backseat pleads: “I am sorry mom, I really am. It's all my fault. I am going to be better I promise. I am so sorry.” 

I feel small and thorny and ghastly and hideous. I want to take her pain and push into my own heart. I tell her it's in no way her fault, that I am the adult and should know so much better, that I was petty and mean and horrible and vile but she keeps trying to let me off the hook. She suggests we share the blame. Good girl! Keep going. Your kind heart makes me fell worse. Bring it on. She is doling out the punishment without realizing it and it deepens my shame.

It's quiet for for a few miles then my nine year old says:

“You know mom, if there was ever a potion that let you completely forget bad moments, erase them as though they never happened (I'm thinking: I’d drink it by the gallon) then no one would ever learn from their mistakes.”

This moment with my nine year old daughter is one of many that has stopped me in my tracks. It’s not the first time we have been alone together and she was the smartest one in the room. I know it won’t be the last.

We got past the horrible event but I will worry that I have done irreparable damage. That she will lug the cumulative effect of all these emotional scrimmages into her adult life. I hope she will have more sense and more tools than I do and the only way I hope to ensure that is tell her the truth every time I screw up and confess that I made a mistake, that I am not perfect, never will be and that I am truly sorry. Is it enough? I hope so. It’s all I’ve got.

Maybe now as she lies in bed reading, and I sit here in cyber confession, she has forgotten it all. Maybe it really is just all part of life, normal and expected and no worse than the very few minor infractions I can recall from my childhood that were mitigated by the immeasurable love. 

I will worry now about the damage I have done and willingly take the blame for it later on. When, on her less than stellar days with her own kids, she looks into her dysfunctional family past and sees my face in her rear-view mirror.