‘Girls, I’m sorry…’
It’s a sentence I say often to my daughters Blake, six, and four-year-old Cole.
And not because I’m constantly doing terrible things or breaking my promises; it’s because I lose my temper. I’m tired! I’m trying to work! I’m due on!
But none of the above, and a myriad of other reasons, is the fault of my teeny children. And I need them to know that.
Recently, during half-term, I lost my cool. Blake was nagging me to make cakes, except I had to tidy up, clean away lunch, sort through the endless piles of washing and run a Cillit Bang-soaked sponge around the bathroom.
Couldn’t she see that for God’s sake? Well, no. She’s only just six and the entire universe still revolves around her. But hey, who needs logic in a moment like that?
‘Stop!’ I roared. ‘Stop asking! Sit down! Watch TV!’ She blinked at me, hurt by my outburst. Then she ran into the living room, leaving me well alone.
Later on, as Blake was getting ready for bed, I apologised. ‘Being a mummy can be hard,’ I said, ‘but you didn’t do anything wrong, and I’m sorry for shouting.’
‘That’s OK, mummy,’ she said, as she always does, and wrapped her arms around me.
With all my heart I hope that in the moments they spend in my arms, my daughters feel totally safe and totally loved. Because while I can be an angry mum, I am also a mum who apologises.
Apologising to my daughters wasn’t a conscious decision I made in my pre-pregnancy life – then again, neither was being an angry mum – but like the rest of motherhood, it has been a natural evolution.
‘I’m sorry…’ is now something I say often, not because I’m constantly doing terrible things or breaking my promises but because I lose my temper.
I lose it when Cole whines and moans because she needs me while I’m trying to work; when Blake screams and cries in the car because she’s dropped something; when they squabble and bicker over toys and the TV.
I could swear my children wait until I’m out of the room to ask something of me. They hold it in until my toe touches the top of the stairs before they holler ‘Mum! Mum!’
I vividly remember shouting at Blake and Cole not long after Cole’s first birthday.
I’d just finished maternity leave and was working from home, so I logged on just before 6am while the rest of the house was still asleep.
In theory, this would give me over an hour to write and edit in peace; in reality, the children both woke up and sat outside the door of my makeshift office, crying for me.
It was mental torture. I grew more and more frustrated – mainly at my husband for not dealing with the situation – until I exploded in fury.
Afterwards, I felt wretched. My kids were babies and all they wanted was their mum.
My words of apology fell on deaf ears as they were too little and lacked the language skills to understand, but my cuddles and kisses let them feel my sentiment.
As they have grown, though, I tell them that I am sorry over and over again. I’ve come to understand that shouting at my children is a loss of control on my part, and I know that I need to apologise for that.
Kids are like sponges and they absorb what they see, soaking it all in, especially from the person who is the centre of their world.
My two constantly parrot words and phrases that I say, so when I see flashes of anger and impatience in my children, I know it’s on me to show them another way.
I want them to be kind to others and be kind to themselves, and I want to help teach them how to do this.
I also want my children to have memories of laughing and loving times, not of a mum at the end of her tether constantly irritated and snapping and fraying like a piece of string.
Writer Philip Larkin summed up the impact parents have on their children perfectly in his poem This Be the Verse when he wrote: ‘They f**k you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to but they do.’
Without any malice on my part, some of my quirks and foibles are going to leave a lasting impact on my kids. I’m determined, however, that my rage won’t be one of them.
Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk.
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