Taming the Tornado

He’s so angry. He’s throwing everything he can reach. He’s screaming. He kicks a bucket as he walks by. It’s like there’s a tornado inside him wanting to destroy everything he can see.

He’s 7-years old.

In his torment I see myself. I can feel the rage he’s experiencing. Because I’ve felt it so many times in the past. I can no longer count the number of things I have destroyed during one of my own rages. Water sprinklers, garden hose, a broom, vacuums, fans, a stereo, a coffee table (glass coffee table), door jambs. The list goes on.

In his torment I also see my husband. Our Irish tempers are a match. There’s a dent in the plaster in the hallway wall upstairs from his fist.

How do we, who have failed miserably at our own self control, ever be able to teach our son how to wrangle his own flares? It seems an impossible and hypocritical task.

The next day it was my turn for the tornado. I too kicked the same bucket as I stormed across the house raging over a ridiculously insignificant trigger.

I thought the first time I ever saw my tantrum in my child it would be a big enough wake up call that I would never do it again. That was five years ago. And a hundred tantrums between us all since.

After I calm down and feel the wash of shame sweep over me, I have to face those wide eyes who witnessed my unravel and who absorbed every second of it in their sponge-like minds. All I can do is suck up my pride and admit my failure. I bring my kids together.

“Mommy really lost it, didn’t she?” I say to them. Their heads nod. My daughter, ever the mirror of truth, begins to describe in detail my spiral. “And then I heard you bang the door shut and it was like *SLAM!* and I thought it broke!” More shame punches me squarely in the gut. “That’s not how we’re supposed to behave, huh?” I cut her off midstream as she continues describing more of my failures. My heart (and my ego) can’t take much more.

I go on to remind them (and me) that it’s ok to be mad, but it’s not ok to throw fits. It’s ok to cry and want to hit stuff, but it’s not ok to actually hit stuff. I practice with them the deep breathing that we should do when we’re mad and we talk about how much it helps us feel better. Everything I say to them is stuff I need to hear more than they do.

I see my faults in full glory when I see them come through in the children who I hold so much hope and promise for. I want more from them than this. Knowing that they’re watching and absorbing should be enough to keep my temper in check. But it’s not always. But if I can’t be a good example 100% of the time, I can at least be a lesson of humility. It’s the greatest learning experience. For all of us.