Illustration by Erin Bushnell
Can I be honest with you? I don’t even remember why I yelled at my 3-year-old that day, the day I felt like the worst mom ever to my two girls.
Maybe it was because she was jumping off the stairs yet again, and I didn’t feel like taking her and her 5-year-old sister to the ER alone because their dad was working all weekend. Maybe it was because she peed on the floor yet again while she was literally standing right in front of the toilet, and then she stepped in it and made wet little footprints all over the house. Or perhaps it was because she pushed an entire bowl of cereal off the table, staring defiantly into my eyes as I clenched my jaw so hard I thought my teeth would break.
I don’t recall the tipping point. All I remember is screaming at her: “Lillian! Seriously?”
Her cherubic face contorted into an enormous frown; her eyes scrunched shut as a torrent of heartbroken howls flooded my ears. My heart pounded, my fingernails dug into my palms. I felt only two things: guilt and shame. I never wanted to be the mom who yelled. Do any of us? Don’t we all say that we’ll never do x, y and z to our kids and then find ourselves doing those very things?
As Lillian stood sobbing on the stairs, I leaned against the kitchen counter, hoping its cool granite would absorb some of the heat rising into my cheeks. I heard a sharp, strong voice cut through the sobs: “Mom!” I looked up. My 5-year-old, Kat, stood on the stairs, one hand on her sister’s shoulder and the other patting Lil’s wavy red hair. “Don’t yell at her! That is NOT kind!”
The heat returned to my cheeks. My visceral internal response to being scolded by my daughter isn’t something I can write here. Here’s a G-rated version of what I wanted to say to Kat: “How dare you? It is not your job to tell me what to do, little girl.” My initial reaction was defensiveness, followed by a desire to rationalize. I wanted to explain, “She was making a bad choice, so I yelled to stop her. She deserved it.”
Just like that, my worst day as a mom turned into a transformative one.
But, this time, I said none of those things aloud. Instead, I locked eyes with Kat. It was like staring in a mirror: furrowed eyebrows, pursed lips, narrowed eyes. I recognized that look on her face — it was the look of a warrior preparing for battle. She didn’t regret calling me out, and she was unafraid; she was resolute.
As we stared each other down, I thought about all the times I’ve said to her, “Use your big, strong voice to stand up for yourself and others.” Or, “If someone is unkind to you, tell them it’s not kind and then walk away.” I remembered all the books we’d read about being strong and fierce, about having integrity and doing the right thing even when it was hard. I thought about how I would’ve wanted an adult to respond to me as a child if I had stood up for someone who was being yelled at, if I had ever had the courage to speak up. I reflected briefly on how I still, to this day, have issues speaking up to authority figures.
As Kat’s eyes bored into me, I realized that I could double down and be defensive, or I could humble myself and be the mom I want to be to my kids. I couldn’t tell myself I was raising strong, independent women and then punish them when they demonstrated traits I claimed to espouse.
I trudged up the stairs, metaphorical tail between my legs, and gathered a still-sobbing Lily into my arms. I tenderly kissed her salty, tear-stained cheek: “I’m so sorry, Lily. I shouldn’t have yelled at you. No one should ever yell at you. Not even me. Will you forgive me?”
She nodded and wiped her snot on my shoulder, then giggled because snot is funny when you’re 3. She laid her head on my shoulder. Three-year-olds, thankfully, do not hold grudges.
Kat stood frozen, skeptical, staring at me, and I knew that I needed to say something to her, too. Finding these words was harder. I pushed away my pride and mustered up these words: “Kat, you did the right thing by standing up for your sister. Thank you for telling me I was wrong. You used your big, strong voice. You should be very proud of yourself.” She relaxed and smiled. “I know, Mom. You just made a mistake!” And then she parroted back something I tell her almost every day — when she can’t button her jumper, when she writes her letters backwards: “Mistakes are how we learn!”
And just like that, my worst day as a mom turned into a transformative one.
This is not the first time I have yelled at my kids and apologized, and I know it won’t be the last. But I also know that I don’t want them to think that it’s OK for someone to treat them poorly, apologize and then keep doing the same thing again. I knew (thank you, therapy) I needed to figure out why I was having such a hard time not yelling and address the root cause.
I’m still working on that, but what I’ve pinpointed so far is that when I feel overwhelmed and am constantly interrupted when trying to do simple tasks, I want to snap. I’m still working on a coping skill, but hey, that’s what my therapist is for, right?
And while I don’t remember why I yelled on this day, or what triggered me so strongly, I do remember something just as important: why I apologized. I apologized because of the audacity, the courage of my 5-year-old daughter, who saw an injustice and used her big, strong voice to make it right, turning my worst day as a mom into one of my best.
Christine Suders is a former high school English teacher who now works in the legal field. She is married to her high school sweetheart and is the mom of two young kids.
