Mommy Rage
It almost always hits me toward the end of a holiday break. And last night was no exception.
Crumbs littered the floor. Cups and plates covered every surface in the playroom. Dirty sneakers had been casually thrown into a dining room chair. Various dried spills dotted the kitchen counters. Toddler toys were just… everywhere.
I was frazzled. I was tired. And I was sick of looking at my formerly-clean wreck of a home. I could feel a white-hot mommy rage washing over me like a wave of molten lava.
Thank God everyone else had gone to bed, because mommy rage is not a pretty sight. My lips grow thin, my nostrils flare, my eyes get steely. Hello, Mrs. Hyde.
“No-count filthy ruffians,” I muttered under my breath as I made my way down the playroom stairs juggling five dirty plates and three glasses. Damn. I’d have to go back up again to pick up the candy wrappers.
“Ingrates,” I mouthed, scrubbing at a stubborn smattering of dried ice cream on the kitchen floor. “Slobby, slothful sapsuckers.”
It’s shameful to admit, but sometimes, I ease the pangs of mommy rage by calling my family names. Under my breath. Particularly when I’m trying to figure out how to get meat stick mush out of a Berber carpet.
“Little potbellied picklefeffer!”
Or vacuuming up mud tracked in from outside. Again.
“Dagnamed dirt devils!”
It’s not so much that I mind the cleaning. It’s the fact that it gets dirty again so damn quickly. And no one’s willing to shoulder the blame. Who’s responsible for the big red stain in the newly-cleaned upstairs carpet? More importantly, who is leaving strategically-placed tufts of hair around the house? Because everyone’s in denial mode.
“Mealy-mouthed magpie lovers! Confounded curdled cruds!”
I felt the rage begin to subside a bit as I finished loading the dishwasher and put the girls’ school lunches in the fridge. At least I’d have some time on Monday to get everything back in order again.
I was relieved to see that Hubs had left a light on for me when I headed upstairs to our room. Sometimes he doesn’t, and there’s nothing like crashing around a pitch-black bedroom to send me swirling back into emotional befuddlement.
The door creaked open and Hubs woke up.
“Thanks for leaving the light on for me,” I whispered, feeling all loved and stuff.
“We’ve got a problem,” he harumphed. “I can’t take light in here anymore. I’ve got to get some sleep!”
I headed for the bathroom, but not before I overheard his final comment.
“Dimwitted dinglehopper!”
His holiday weekend was over. He would have get up at 5:45 for carpool. Work was a bitch. Uh oh. It could only be…
Daddy rage.
>Oh, that was so me last night, too.
>Ah, nothing like anger to get the blood pumping. I used to vacuum when I got angry; my carpets were very clean. ;^) But I think in your situation I might’ve spent time making up a chore list instead of doing all the cleaning for them…? Hard to say, as your sitch is different. Feeling better now, though?
>You are cracking me up right now. Another woman’s rage is somehow funny and comforting!
>Your name-calling creativity is at a high point here. I’d be reduced to using cuss words under my breath, but these are inventive and you could actually say them out loud!
>b.e.c.k.- Oh, I started out with a nag list of chores. For two lonnnng, lonnnng years, I nagged. And stuff was cleaner. But we weren’t as happy. These girls never had to clean in their LIVES before me. So now, I choose my battles. I’ve found that a little private teeth-gritting is nicer than feeling like a nag. And trust me- when baby gets older, she’ll be cleaning up after herself with the best of them- but she’ll have been doing it all along and it won’t seem like a punishment.And kenju- I try to limit the cussing when it’s about the fam- I have to be able to look at myself in the morning! 😉
>Nothing like mommy rage to get a house clean in a hurry 🙂 I guess that’s how we don’t kill anyone… working out all the anger on the dirt and mess.