Bad Mother Behavior

Let me start by saying I love my daughter. She’s 10 years old, funny, warm and amazing (not that I'm biased.) However, she follows me around constantly asking questions. I think her first words were in the form of a question. It drives me insane. One day last week, I found myself hiding from her in the bathroom just to get break from the questions. Within two minutes she was knocking at the door saying, “Momma, what are you doing in there?” I had reached my limit and snapped, “Please, just leave me alone for a minute. Give me some air.”

My daughter looked wounded and retreated to her room. I felt that immediate mommy guilt that we all feel when we lose our cool. That guilt that convinces us that one bad conversation can send our daughters to the nearest stripper pole and can have our sons sucking on the closest crack pipe.

The next day, I was waiting for my food at a local fast food restaurant. The cutest little boy you could ever see was desperately trying to get his very young mother’s attention to ask her a question. When she finished placing her order, the mother yanked the snot out of the little boy who was barely old enough to walk. She bent to yell in his face, “Shut up. You’re getting on my fuckin' nerves, you little bastard.” She slammed the toddler into a nearby chair and said, “Now, stay there and be still before I kick your little ass.” The little boy didn’t make a sound or move a muscle which made me think that he knew she wasn't making an idle threat.

Everyone in the small waiting area looked uncomfortable. I stood there feeling impotent. I wanted to say, “If he’s a bastard, it’s your fault.” But I knew that anything I said would have ended with me choking her around the neck in front of her son. That wouldn’t have been good for anyone.

My heart hurt for that little boy and I thought about him all day. What would he be like after being treated that way for five more years? What about 10 years? Who would he be at age 20? Would he rise above it and become a strong, wonderful young man? Or would he be like the other young men I see walking the streets aimlessly with no direction and little regard for the future? I wondered if his mother had been treated that way by her mother. Or is she just simply too young to know what being a real mother means?

Later that evening my daughter once again was getting on my nerves with a barrage of questions. I told her, “Girl, you don’t know how good you have it. Now, get out of my face.” Just kidding. I took a deep breath and counted to 10. Then counted to 20 and answered her question. After all, that’s what real mothers do.