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.

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

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.

Why is it that motherhood can go from such heights to such depths in a matter of moments, or in my case, 24 little hours.

Yesterday I felt like the poster girl for motherhood. Despite a middle of the night wake up call from Hudson, I felt fresh as we launched into the day's activities. The boys were not particularly angelic, fighting over toys and who got to be the rule maker of whatever game they were creating, but I had reserves of calm and I mediated disputes like a boss. All the kids fingernails and toenails were clipped, I did a load of washing, we had an outing to Grandma's playgroup, put dinner in the slow cooker, whipped up a double batch of muesli slice and I had completed the Tribe Kids (or should I say Open House) lesson plan by early afternoon. Dave came home from work exhausted but we powered through dinner/baths and then I helped him find utopian themed videos for this week's Open House party.

And then today happened.

It started as any other day, although Hudson had woken in the middle of the night again, so I was a little more weary as a result. Ivy is struggling with a virus and constant coughing fits and was inconsolable by the time of her morning nap. As I was attempting a quick clothes change for Ivy before sleep time, I heard telling screams and a loud thump from the kitchen. I scooped up Ivy, half dressed and was greeted by a shifty, guilty looking Hudson and a shocked and horrified Eli. Turns out Hudson had tried to join in Eli's game, but when the answer was a resounding 'No', Hudson gave Eli a resounding 'thump'... pushing his face into the kitchen bench. I tried to mediate, but with the incessant soundtrack of a baby wailing it was difficult. The order for Hudson to go straight to Time Out was met with more screaming and I became instantly overwhelmed. So I joined in the screaming, of course. I'm not even sure what I was saying, but I'm pretty sure it was something about how I couldn't handle this and I just needed a moment and for everyone to leave me alone.... the usual.

Eli was the first to crack and he ushered Hudson out into the living room so I could put Ivy to bed. He even orchestrated it so that Hudson soon returned to apologise to me, though it wasn't quite what I had in mind, still being in the middle of calming a screaming baby. We got through it though, Eli with a big red lump underneath one eye, and I with the hoarse lungs of one who has abused her vocal chords. There were hugs and apologies and speeches about how everyone makes mistakes and how we had a choice about how to proceed through the rest of the day. The bad news could have ended there.

But it didn't.

The next battle came when we needed to get out of the house to go to Aldi. A usually compliant Eli refused to get dressed and spent the time raging on the toilet instead. Then he came and spread his fury amongst us, screaming in a pitch that should be reserved for a torture chamber, slamming doors and eventually throwing couch cushions in my face when I tried not to react. My patience limit was quickly exceeded, and I threw some back and ordered him to Time Out. So he trashed his room. I packed up Hudson and Ivy and told Eli to get in the car. He was horrified that I was asking him to leave the house in his undies, but I explained to him that he had turned down at least five opportunities to get dressed. I eventually revealed that I had packed his clothes in the car, but I hope the lesson will translate to future battles.

Surprisingly the kids were well behaved at the store, though the peace couldn't last forever and Eli decided to crack it in the parking lot because he couldn't wait the extra 20 steps to get to the car to obtain the bribe of sour straps that I had promised them, yelling at the top of his lungs and pushing the pram the wrong direction as I tried to 'calmly' put us back on course. The eye rolling and poorly disguised 'tsking' from the old lady that passed us certainly didn't alleviate the stressful situation. We made it home without any real incident, despite the indignance over losing the promised treat, and got everyone (including me) into rest time.

The rest of the day was fairly unremarkable, except for being covered three times in Ivy's projectile vomit, and Hudson taking a spectacular dive headfirst into the hard floor. We did manage to have a peaceful hour of playtime outside where all three went without incident or fighting for that entire period.

This morning Monica shared with me a challenging article this morning by Brene Brown tackling the challenging issue of 'changing our narrative'. She says that "storytelling helps us all impose order on chaos—including emotional chaos. When we're in pain, we create a narrative to help us make sense of it." In order to get behind this emotional narrative, we have to 'reckon' with the source of our feelings and wrestle with that. A very similar concept to Richard Rohr's shadow self/persona concept, come to think of it.

After Dave made it home and sent me away for some recovery time, I decided to attempt 'the reckoning'. Maybe at the heart of it, I doubt my credentials as a mother and wonder if they are even better off for me being home full time. On days like today it sure feels like the poor modelling of controlling my emotions outweighs the personal care and attention they receive. It probably doesn't help that there is a lot of stuff going on simultaneously this week- like Production week at Dave's school, Open House parties over the next two weeks, an unexpected tax bill, and Hudson's hospital appointment at which I fully expected to receive bad news (but thankfully didn't).

The most difficult part of the daily grind is the relentless nature of being needed in so many different ways usually at the same time. The emotional and mental strain takes its toll and when everything clashes at once, I launch into 'overwhelmed' mode, which leads to 'shame and regret' mode, which leads to 'dark and numb' mode. Without the time and space to process the interactions it can quickly spiral to a less than ideal place. Monica, Naomi and Dave did get the unfortunate privilege of getting a snapshot of my black mood today and it sure wasn't pretty. But knowing that someone else was aware of my struggle did help me pick myself back up a number of times, and probably avoid an even more catastrophic day.

"The reckoning can feel dangerous because you're confronting yourself—the fear, aggression, shame and blame. Facing our stories takes courage. But owning our stories is the only way we get to write a brave new ending." (Brene Brown)

On days like today it can feel as if I will never get to that alternative ending. That my narrative is stuck on repeat and I'm destined to make the same mistakes over and over. But I'm choosing to own my story- the stormy parts as well as the sunny ones- and to gaze into the disappointing mistakes so that I can change my narrative and look back and see progress. I'm not a calm, patient or resilient mother.... yet. And that last little word makes all the difference.

It's so tough to see, at times, when you are mothering competently. We may have had a positive, meaningful day, and then I'll lose it for some reason and the whole period can feel tainted by this shadow of failure. I am getting better at choosing not to wallow in the mire of shame, but when you are already in the midst of a 'grumpy fog', this is difficult.

I'm a 'catastrophiser' at times, too. Dave mentioned that he would have to be away for two nights in a row, due to various commitments at school. I didn't take it very well. Despite the fact that I manage to muddle through 8-9 hours by myself with the kids on the weekdays, somehow, the extra six hours of doing it solo seemed unmanageable. The fact that other mums seem to cope while mothering alone definitely didn't help me to lift out of the funk. Somehow I have adopted this unhealthy mentality that if any other mother in the world can do something, I am weak if I cannot also do that thing.

Recently, I've been attempting to use my spare minutes a little more productively and I've been watching a variety of TED talks. I'm pretty sure that people in our Tribe Facebook group now mutter under their breath every time I share a new video with them! One talk entitled "The game that can give you 10 extra years of life" by game designer, Jane McGonigal, has potentially revolutionised my world.

Jane relates her story of suffering from a brain injury in which she was forced into complete bed rest for three months in order to let her body recover. She was unable to do anything that would trigger the symptoms which meant basically anything she had been engaging for pleasure or mental stimulation including reading, computer games, or emailing. In the first month she literally wanted to die, but then she came up with a game that would allow her to 'slay' the injury's hold over her and improve her perspective. After finding the fog of depression and suicidal ideation lift within days, she went on to design an online game so that others could also participate and battle their particular demons.

Her game is called 'SuperBetter' and it is incredible. You nominate the particular challenge that you are dealing with and select quests that will lead you along your way to the end goal. For me, I'm trying to be a 'calm, patient and more resilient mother'. Every time you achieve a quest or activate a power up (something that helps you feel inspired or gives you a lift in mood) you level up in emotional, physical, mental or social resilience.

I played SuperBetter in the two days and it helped my perspective immensely. When I would have almost certainly cracked it at the kids, I was able to stop and get some clarity before heading down the slope. The 'bad guys' that I battled were 'Grumpy Fog' and 'Rage Monster', and just identifying them as entities outside of myself was constructive to my outlook. I certainly didn't always win against the villains, but I was certainly more motivated to try.

On the second night, I admit it got a bit too much, after going the entire day without yelling or raising my voice, I was felled at the last hurdle- Bedtime.

I'd foolishly allowed the boys to play devices while I tried to get Ivy down, but despite the numerous warnings that the time was coming to an end, at the precise moment in which I attempted to get them to surrender the instruments, all hell broke loose. From that point on, Eli lost the use of his legs and doubled the decibels of his vocal chords. He was unable to perform any simple tasks such as climbing onto the toilet or brushing his teeth and I was obliged to drag him from room to room with us.

Somewhere in the saga, the tantrum awakened Ivy and I was not in the least impressed. A very quick bedtime story was read in an unintelligible monotone and a tuneless lullaby sung before a hasty exit from the room. While putting an unusually compliant Hudson to bed, I was treated to screaming in stereo from both Eli and Ivy. Eventually I was able to tackle an exceedingly overtired Eli and explain to him the depth and source of my irritation, while tersely reassuring him that I loved him, and he soon succumbed to a much needed slumber. Ivy soon followed suit, but I was disappointed that I had lost my battle against the overpowering Mr Fog.

Nevertheless, the fact of the game meant that I had a means in which to classify the battle, and in admitting the loss, I still managed to obtain mental resilience points. It  may have also helped that I had five girls coming over for tea, cake and chats less than 15 minutes after the battle had ceased!

It is unrealistic to expect that a game can allow you to avoid any falls or failures, but I am appreciative of the gamification of an area of life that provides very little concrete affirmation or acknowledgement of the 'wins' that you can experience. I'm such a sucker for this stuff!

In other news, my semi-regular (by which I mean two total) jogs with the kids have hit a snag, with an epic triple swooping session by crazed magpies. First they went for Hudson who was utterly unaware of the two screeching birds less than a meter from his (helmeted) head, despite my maniacal gesturing as I ran shrieking towards him. Then I turned to see them descending on Eli, so I made a beeline for him. Finally, as I shouted at the boys to run towards home, they went for Hudson again and I clumsily managed to capsize the pram when I tried to dash towards him, only just catching it before it completely toppled over. So yeah, not really game to tempt the sky bird god, Horus, again in the near future....Unless I add exercise as a series of quests on SuperBetter, then my fierce competitiveness gene may be just powerful enough to override this superstitious fear!