I've been wondering lately, which 'me' is the real one?

Is it the one excitedly pointing out cows and diggers through the car windows? Or the snarling, pushed to the edge version when my instructions have been completely ignored by the kids one too many times? Perhaps the passionate, inspired variation when I've just resonated with a new idea about doing life better? Or the task manager ordering toys into different boxes during pack up time? Maybe it is the writer sitting in the corner seat in a cafe creating narratives and crafting pieces.

If I'm to be honest, my narrative of self is probably derived from the 'me' that was most exhibited over the past three days. If I have kept my temper under control, met emotional outbursts with patience, kept the washing up to date, had time to reflect and read books and blogs, I feel as if I'm doing OK.

On Monday I was lying on the couch reflecting to Mum, "I can't actually remember the last time I *really* lost it at the kids. I'm better at forgiving myself and moving on now, rather than moping and punishing myself for the mistake, which in turn ironically just ensures I make more bad parenting decisions."

Unfortunately, it turns out that 'knowing' this rationally wasn't quite enough to save us all from a toxic rage-cloud that very evening.

Dave was absent for Parent Teacher Interviews and I had decided against asking one of our parents to help out with crazy hour. "I think it will be good for me to try and do it by myself... it might even be easier in some ways," said the Control Freak to Dave. "Though I'll probably regret saying that." Oh, if only I had utilised that foresight instead of laughing at it.

Let's just say that someone must have injected a large dose of adrenaline into both boys and they were almost literally bouncing off the walls and each other. All the 'fun' things I had planned ended up being taken off the table in response to complete failures to listen or follow instructions.

When it got to 6:30pm I was done. My 'nice' voice had been depleted, and the only tone that was left resembled more of a snarl. After finally getting Ivy into bed and attempting to read stories to the boys, I asked Hudson to choose a book and come to the bed. Ten times. On the last time, for emphasis, I pointed emphatically down at the bed next to me with my extended index finger. My impassioned movement misjudged all measurements of distance and I connected with far too much force, snapping the top half of the digit backwards on impact. There was much swearing and crying. I thought I had broken it by the searing pain that consumed me. Both boys immediately turned into angels and started stroking my hair and shooshing me, "It's alright, Mummy, we're sorry, are you OK?"

We limped through the rest of the bedtime routine and when I finally emerged from the warzone I felt a sense of complete shellshock. And shame. "No other mother would behave like this". I thought morosely to myself. Despite my finger throbbing angrily, I refused to take any pain medication because I thought I deserved the torment. And despite spending the last two hours willing the kids to be in bed so I could have a break, I was reluctant to even choose an activity that would constitute a form of enjoyment because I had behaved with such lack of care.

Rationally, and after the swirling emotions subsided, I know how completely silly my response sounds. But in that moment, with the shame 'demons' dancing victoriously over my slumped and defeated body, Logic was not invited to the party. I sent a brutally honest and tear-stained confession to Naomi and Monica. It was the last thing I felt like doing, but the very thing I needed. Shame's strangling grip began to loosen.

Today I went back to the Enneagram (I'm a Type One Wing Two) and my mind was blown. It was as if it described exactly the course of events from "sudden fits of hyper-critical rage" which "become more food for the self-judgment spiral", "guilty remorse", "intense sessions of wrenching, hand-wringing despair". As a result, "self-punishment is necessary" along with "every kind of refusal to experience any sort of pleasure".

I love the Enneagram. If it can predict with that level of accuracy the ways in which I will have an outburst and the reaction upon my failure to 'control myself', it is pretty bloody amazing. It also helps me understand that this experience doesn't define me but simply display when I'm under significant stress. It was crazy hour, I'm not sure why I expected it would be anything else!

My still swollen (and thankfully unbroken) finger hopes that this is the only time I need to learn this lesson, and it is my wish that I will be able to recognise the telltale signs of reaching my capacity before I reach the tipping point, but for now I'm choosing to learn from the experience. Sometimes we need to fall down further to realise how much we really don't want to be there.

Turns out that yelling is pretty pointless. It rarely receives the results that I hope for, and rage just leads to pain. I'm trying to not become so emotionally caught up in the little things and learn to stand back and observe the situation. Taking more note of the beautiful moments and being thankful for them. Marvelling at the little chubby folds on Ivy's arms, Hudson's striking Arctic blue eyes,
Eli's self-conscious glance to the side as he shares a story.

In other news, I've started Bullet Journalling, an analog system of organisation that fluidly allows you to capture moments, tasks, intentions and reflections all in the same little notebook (I found this article very helpful in breaking it all down).

At the heart of it, each of us go through periods of stress and growth (sometimes in the same hour!) and I find it so helpful to have a way of understanding 'self' that doesn't rely merely on how I am feeling or performing in that given moment. Thank goodness for the Enneagram.

...

Have you had any light-bulb moments with the Enneagram? Feel free to share your experience in the comments below. 

It is beginning to dawn on me exactly how powerful the stories we tell ourselves become.

They can become the difference between a successful day and a disastrous one, a bitter life or a flourishing existence.

We had a rough start this morning. Dave had to leave extra early and I was abruptly awoken by a far too chirpy Hudson peering intently into my face and poking me. I eventually staggered down the hall to find Eli and Ivy screeching with laughter in her cot, playing with her teddies. The day had started without me, it would seem.

A quick toilet break turned out to be a disaster as I came back into the kitchen to find pink paint smeared all over Hudson's face, hands and clothing. And the bench, drawers and cupboards as well. I snatched bites of breakfast in between breaking up fights, preventing injuries and shouting instructions at children not inclined to listen. It was a runaway train heading for destruction.

"It's barely 10am and I feel as if I've already used my energy quota for the day." I wrote to Dave, in between other more colourful descriptions.

After putting myself in Time Out for the third time that morning (pointlessly it turns out, as somehow fleeing from the room seeking alone time is translatable to pre-schoolers as 'please follow Mummy and do somersaults on the bed over her'), I sent an SOS to the girls for help.

"Arghh, this morning has been really s&%! so far- I really need help changing my narrative!"

Monica shared emphatically of similar difficulties and gave some suggestions of ways to cope in the meantime. Naomi offered perspective and encouragement and I was reminded of my usual coping mechanism of writing furiously in my Gratitude Journal, a method that had slipped my mind in the chaos.

It turns out that my subconscious and insular 'woe is me, no one else must be having this type of morning' perspective was very toxic and only succeeded in sinking me further into the quicksand of despair. I found out that another of my friends was having an even tougher morning than I and actually needed some practical help.

These realisations and the importance of changing locations to reframe the story, actually ended up bringing me completely out of the funk and we had a memorable and beautiful day. With picnics at the playground, staring into the sky sharing a net swing with Ivy, making stories out of the dragon shaped clouds in the sky, painting Stormfly and Blades on enchanted faces, fish and chips on the trampoline for dinner and adventures in the garden with the boys. I also soaked up Dave's generous offer to duck out for some leisurely reading time at a cafe before dinner. Even three quarters of an hour turning pages over savouring a piccolo latte is more than enough to reset the energy meters, I find. 

I've been reading Bob Goff's book 'Love Does'. His life is littered with inspirational examples of powerful gestures and experiences, as he fully engages with life and embraces the whimsical nature of the world in which we are placed. From taking his kids on slave rescue missions in India to sending flowers (of forgiveness) to the very apologetic elderly lady who T-boned his jeep at an intersection, to wooing his wife with life-sized cards and peanut butter and jam sandwiches under her windscreen- he chooses to seize each moment with reckless abandon.

It is far easier at times to succumb to the chaos and feel as if the day is something to endure or just 'get through'. Yet, when we are able to rise above the emotions controlling this narrative and choose a different story, reaching out in solidarity with others, we somehow tap into this bewitching undercurrent that has the power to transform us and those that surround us.

I never imagined that motherhood would be this hard. The day in, day out relentlessness of taking care of little people who need and demand so much from you. Fighting and avoiding battles, uttering phrases you never expected to hear come out of your mouth, attempting to reason with preschoolers over the method and use of the toilet... not to mention the mundane realities of just keeping them fed, clothed and alive!

This week I was so overcome with frustration and emotion that I pounded my fist so hard into my yoga mat that I thought I might have broken a bone. The shame that washed over me when I thought that I would have to live with that reality was immense. 'What kind of mother does that!?' was stuck on repeat in my mind, coupled with 'You think this is bad? It's only going to get worse as they get older'. 'You are crazy, out of control'. 'I just can't do this anymore!'

Nap time didn't go well. For about two months now, we have been on this dream collision of schedules where each of the kids go to sleep or have an extended rest/play time in their rooms and I get to have 1.5 hours of yoga, blogging and catching up on my Feedly posts. I was almost afraid to mention it out loud, for fear that just speaking of the situation would cause it to vanish. The recharge time that it created for me was incredible and I found the days so much easier to handle.

Ivy and Hudson had fallen asleep in the car and were not enthusiastic about being resettled. Eli was in a button pushing mood and I was too tired to respond with grace or anything resembling patience. I was sticky and uncomfortable with the unusual humidity and my hair felt as if it had been smothered in grease. I had already pushed 'pause' on the yoga video five times to deal with excessive noise or crying and it was less than a few minutes in. The last straw was Eli flinging the metal part of a dog leash into the wall just at the point where Ivy and Hudson had finally been quiet. I stormed in and snatched the leash out of his hands, shut the door and lost it, pounding my fists into the yoga mat in a vain attempt at unleashing some of the white hot rage that I felt. There was audible swearing too....lots of it.

For someone who loves control so much, I freaking HATE losing it. It is like the ultimate betrayal of myself. 'I should be handling this!' 'How the hell do you think you are going to manage four kids if you can't even handle three?!' 'Dave would be so patient right now.'

When Dave got home, he found me in the shower, sobbing. I didn't even care what happened with the failed nap time anymore, I just wanted a f*%^ing break. He sent me out to do some Open House work at a cafe with strict instructions not to come home until dinner ('though make sure you bring back a pizza!'). Venturing out into the wider world without the kids did make me feel somewhat human again, and being able to churn through planning work and pick up supplies for the Kids program did make me feel as if I had accomplished something positive despite the sense of destruction and chaos that lingered at home.

I hate writing posts like this. I don't even want to admit that this darkness can burst out of me. I wish I could just cope all the time, gliding through life with patience and resilience. I fear that my kids will see me as this enraged monster, even though Dave keeps reminding me that I really don't lose it as much as I think. It is easy to magnify the failures and moments that you want to hide, I guess.

"What's going on inside of me? I despise my own behaviour. This only serves to confirm my suspicions, that I'm still a (wo)man in need of a Saviour." 

I don't even have any profound reflections on the event, other than the powerful pull of Shame's voice as he browbeats you into thinking you are the worst exhibit of motherhood and the only one failing right now. Making it impossible for me to even reflect on a positive narrative of myself as a mother. Reaching out to Monica and Naomi over message, tears streaming down my face as I relived the emotions of the day, truly lifted most of the dark shadow still lingering over me. Their encouraging words putting into perspective the reality of how hard this gig really is, and how much of ourselves we have to offer up every day.

This is meant to be hard. And I do keep reminding myself of the incredible gift it is to even have children, let alone three healthy, cheeky, spirited ones. Particularly in light of the horrific events of the past few weeks around the world. We are so freaking lucky to live in Australia, to have more than enough to live comfortably, and to have at least the illusion of peace through our systems and structures. Sometimes it is far too easy to get tunnel visioned and completely miss the wider picture.

I don't expect that it will magically get easier, and I'm sure I will lose it again over something seemingly trivial in the future. But for now, admitting my darkness and confessing it so that it doesn't continue to grip my soul works for me.