I released the Kraken.
I went all no-wire-hangers on the kids.
They're gonna need therapy for that one.
PICK! UP! YOUR! TOWEL!
That's a sampling of the kinds of things I say to myself and others about my mothering. I often swap these terrible mothering tales with my friends, mostly to receive kind reassurance that I am not, in fact, Medea. My friends say, "Oh, I would have done the same thing," or, "My kid does that, too," or "Don't beat yourself up. They'll end up in therapy anyway." Then they tell me an, "I'm a terrible mother" story.
We help each other feel better with our terrible mother stories all the time.
But what about when we do something great?
I am much more reluctant to share any good mothering stories. It's crowing. It's poor form. It's insensitive. Even if I do talk about my prouder moments, like I did recently with a girlfriend about something that happened Sunday night, I am careful to edit the narrative so it doesn't feel like I'm saying, "Check me out, 'cause I kick ass at this mothering game."
But why not tell the whole unedited story? Why leave out the part that made me the happiest? Why not feel joy for each other when we do something right? Why is commiserating so much easier than commending?
Sunday night I went to my 10-year-old Maxon's bedroom to sing the S'hema and kiss him goodnight. He seemed upset, and I asked him about it. He told me he was hurt about something that happened at school and didn't want to go in on Monday to face it.
I wanted to take his awful feelings away, scoop them out of his body like seeds from a cantaloupe, tell him everything was going to be alright. But I can't do that. More importantly, I shouldn't.
"It feels really awful. And it's supposed to feel awful. You don't have to be afraid of your own feelings," I said. "But you do have to learn how to deal with them, good and bad. They won't kill you, but sometimes it feels like they will."
I told him he couldn't hide from bad situations, and I gave him some advice on how to handle the issue. We talked for a few more minutes. Then I gave him a hug goodnight and started to head downstairs to watch the season finale of The Leftovers, with which I am obsessed. He stopped me with a hand on mine before I left the side of his bed.
"Mom?"
"Yeah?"
"You're such an awesome mom. You explain things well. I was feeling sad and now I feel so much better. You really helped me."
He settled into his pillow, and as I looked at him in the cherry lava lamp light, I tell you I was more than a little verklempt.
That night I wasn't the kraken. Or mommie dearest. Or a catalyst for my son's lifelong therapy.
I was an awesome mom.
And it felt amazing.