The Forgotten Four Letter Word

There's a scene in Sex and the City 2 where Charlotte is in the kitchen frantically making cupcakes with her oldest daughter while her younger daughter is in her highchair screaming and throwing a hissy fit. Her older daughter then smears bright red handprints all over the back of Charlotte's cream vintage Valentino skirt, at which point, Charlotte declares a mommy time-out, locks herself in her pantry and starts to cry.

That was me yesterday. Minus the vintage Valentino skirt and gorgeous apartment in upper Manhattan.

In those moments, I struggle against the compulsion to feel ashamed and to feel like I've taken the mommy test and gotten a big, fat FAIL. I even tell myself it's okay when shit goes down in the comfort of my own home and no one else has to see it because then I don't have to tell anyone about it. Then, it's almost like it didn't actually happen. It's a terribly lonely feeling though- not to talk about it. And the reality is that I'm not alone, or unique, in dealing with the really sucky parts of parenting. My best friend texted me a few weeks ago and told me that she, too, was having the Charlotte York Goldenblatt meltdown-in-the-pantry kind of day. Maybe for some, it's the kind of day when you want to wear something other than faded yoga capri pants and a crusty tank-top with remnants of either dried food or poop. Or when you go out on a limb by wearing something cute or new or- hell, just something clean- only to have it spit up on. If you take days like those, toss in a few tantrums, a headache that won't respond to any over-the-counter medicine, you will arrive at a moment when locking yourself in the pantry or bathroom seems like an entirely appropriate alternative. Just slip mommy some of her special pills under the door, please, and GO THE EFF AWAY.

Today, we were leaving the beach when Ella had what I can undoubtedly say was her worst tantrum yet. As I carried her further away from the ocean (she refused to walk), the crying quickly escalated to all out screaming, kicking and writhing. You know it's bad when you're outside at the beach with all of it's other ambient beachy noise and people can still hear your child over all of it. People stared as she did the "limp rag doll" when I tried to put her down. A few times I admittedly just let her drop and roll around on the sand, just so I could catch my breath. A few passers-by gave that knowing "been-there-done-that" apologetic look. I slung her upside down by her feet over my shoulders while she punched and scratched and clawed and kicked and made sounds that didn't sound human. A couple of people even stopped to ask us if we needed help. (Or perhaps they were wondering if they should call child protective services). By the time we got out to our car, I totally expected to see her head do a 360 degree rotation a la Linda Blair in the Exorcist. (Okay, maybe a little strong...but I swear, sometimes demon possession is the closest thing to illustrating the bi-polar mood swings of your average 2 year old).

It was painfully obvious to me on that walk back to our car that I was that mom. My cheeks burned with shame. I was the one who couldn't control her kid. The one that I, myself, had once shot pitiful glances to in the grocery store or in restaurants years ago when I had the pleasure of going sans children. And here I was, now crying right alongside my daughter who was fighting too hard for me to even attempt buckling her in her carseat. At that moment, I desperately wanted that pantry to lock myself in. I wanted to hide my tears and utter helplessness. I wanted desperately to save face. But even greater than all of those things was my gratitude for my best friend and my husband who were there to first, help get Ella strapped into her seat and then, to hand me a paper bag to breathe in and tell me that I wasn't a bad mom. I was just a normal mom going through yet another kind of refining fire. It wasn't a relief, but it was truth.

So the pressing question: why try to save face in moments like those? When there are a plethora of other four letter words that can (and did) escape my lips, why is it that the hardest one for me to say is "help?".

Motherhood isn't for wimps, that's for damn sure.