Friday thing : kid art, part 2
Brand origin story
Once upon a time, I was the mom of a precocious preschool boy who thought, because I had inadvertantly taught him, that everything in life was negotiable. We of course had a major disagreement of some sort and I banished him to his room. And myself to mine. (I’m not sure where my toddler daughter was but considering she’s alive & well right now, she was somewhere safe). In his aggravation/anger/disdain, my son created this ‘note’ for me and slid it under my bedroom door. At least, I think this is how things went - my OG badmom blog has different details - but I might be conflating the day that produced today’s artwork with the afternoon that I slammed a hole in that same child’s bedroom wall with the doorknob; that time I know I went into timeout to berate myself/calm down and try erasing his look of terror from my brain. (Didn’t work)1. But it doesn’t really matter because either time would have warranted this same response.
I remember feeling [more] awful at first, because even when moms joke about being ‘bad’ we really do fear it’s true most of the time. But then I was so proud of his 4-year old handwriting - those are clearly recognizable letters, well-spaced. And using the O to make not so much an angry face but a jeering one? That is gall + comedy gold.
I have kept this note on a bulletin board ever since that day. I wanted it to remind me to let my kids know - early and calmly - when negotiation wasn’t going to happen, to take deep breaths & timeouts before frightening the children, and that others’ perception is their reality.
When, a few years later, I decided to start writing, my blog name was literally right in front of my face. I also use it as my email and every other social media presence; it has become grounding. There is always the possibility I’ll be bad at this mom-job: still parenting my now-grown offspring, occasionally interacting with teenage students, hanging out with my toddler nephew. But it also shows that I raised very smart and funny kids.
My grown, alive & well son tells me he doesn’t remember feeling as afraid of me as I thought he was. That’s good?
Oh, I have had moments that I still fear have scarred my children for the rest of their lives. The worst ones were from before I went on anti-depressants; my depression showed up mostly as rage.