Confessions From the Confrontational Parent
What it means when mom is the aggressive one.
My husband, the sweet side of our family sandwich, normally admires my strength, confidence, and attitude, but quarantine life has illuminated the dark side of these traits. Strength has turned into aggression. Confidence is moving toward arrogance. Attitude is overbreeding sarcasm. The fine line between being tough and being toxic has never been more clear.
How did we get here
Last month, I woke up to Father’s Day breathing down my neck. I glanced at it remorsefully and promised to spend the day killing my husband with kindness. Maybe it could make up for all the relationship ruff patches that were piling up?
We certainly had a lovely day — avocado toast for breakfast, iced coffees, a stroll in the park. We laughed as we watched our maniac 2-year-old thrash about. My husband reminisced: “Remember how he refused to be swaddled as an infant? As soon as we put him in a blanket, you’d see his arms start to flail like wild bird trapped in a cage. We tried every swaddle on the market, but it was never long before he broke free.”
I couldn’t help but wonder if our son gets this aggressive restlessness from his mother.
I treat confrontation like I treat making a meal: I stay organized and ensure all the ingredients that make a debate delectable are within reach. Confidence always adds a lovely flavor to my head-to-head combats. I tend to keep track of past infarctions just in case I need to pull them out of the pantry for a rainy day.
Perspective from the female aggressor
Last night, the dishes in the sink were the only thing in the entire universe keeping me from being happy. The baby was watching Sesame Street in quiet contentment, the laundry was done, there was food in the fridge. Despite the peaceful afternoon, I felt anger rising like hot air. I glared at my husband relaxing on the couch:
Me: “You know, if the dishes were done, we could both relax for the rest of the night.”
Him: “I’ll do them later.”
Me: “But if you did them now, I could be happy instead of annoyed at the mess.”
Him: “Alright, I’ll do them now.”
Me: “Oh.. .okay.”
I wasn’t anticipating the quick response. He got up and did the dishes in the swift way that always leaves me amazed. He sat back down. The apartment was quiet. Still, anger sat in my stomach like a heavy meal.
Me: “I still feel like our roles and responsibilities still aren’t fair.”
As soon as I said it, I knew I was purposefully disrupting the peace. At that moment, though, I couldn’t stop it, and we descended into another argument that I knew would end without resolution. Today, I’m admitting that I knew what I was doing in the middle of this pointless argument. I knew I was driving this car of confrontation into a ditch, and now I think I know why.
What the yelling really means
After dedicating time and space to investigate my behavior, I realize that fear is the catalyst that is pushing my tendencies over the ledge.
I was confident being a wife, but motherhood has brought strange and powerful fears into my psyche. Fear of failure, fear of injury, fear of loss. There is fear under the dirty dishes screaming that life right now is as good as it’s ever going to be —that I am as good as I’m ever going to be.
Right around the corner, something is lurking to disrupt the beauty in front of our eyes. This is what lies underneath the caustic comments, the mistrust, the anxiety. Fear is the energy powering the confrontation.
Next time, I’m going to try to do a better job of shutting off this machine — but you still have to do the dishes.
