A Mother's Grief
On holding it together
I’m so embarrassed.
I can feel people’s judging stares baring into the back of my head. Quietly disapproving of me, of my children.
They wont stop screaming. Every little thing seems to trigger them into some kind of emotional breakdown. Crying, yelling, swearing, hitting, whining. It’s constant. It’s exhausting. I can’t even count the amount of times I’ve heard “I hate you” in the last few days.
I’m trying really hard to be the parent who allows their children to feel and express all their emotions.
I’m trying really hard to hold space for their emotional overwhelm.
But I am overwhelmed.
I want to scream, yell, cry, and stomp.
I know it’s my inner child wanting to scream. Feeling injustice at the fact that these children can do all the things I was never allowed. Children were meant to be seen and not heard. They were expected to be respectful, disciplined, polite. Behaving like this would result in the wooden spoon or strap when we got home.
This is a mother’s grief.
Not just grief for my children in their overwhelm — but grief for the little girl I once was, who never got to fall apart like this and still be held.
But noone aroud me seems to understand.
We’re in public.
Trying to eat breakfast.
My youngest swearing at his siblings. His silblings doing what seems to be anything to purposely piss him off.
He starts screaming. Bashing his scooter into the furntiure. Throwing himself on the ground. Swearing again, trying to hit.
I try to reach out to him, to offer him safety and comfort and am hit with a foot and a fist and a curse.
People are staring.
I get it. They’re trying to enjoy their breakfast. My children don’t create peace and serenity. It’s more like chaos and catastrophie.
I try to ignore his protests.
Maybe he’ll stop if he has no audience.
But is that good parenting? I can feel the judgement in that choice too.
I look around and everyone appears to be trying to ignore us. No one looks at me with quiet understanding or empathy. No one offers to help. I feel helpless.
I stand up and grab all their things, stating we are leaving. My arms are loaded with a bike, a scooter, a coffee, a bacon and egg roll, an apple juice. And still he lays on the floor of the pavillion screaming at me. Expecting me to pick him up.
I can’t.
I polietely tell the other kids to pack up and head back to the room. I’m trying to stay composed, calm, non-chalant. Like none of this is bothering me in the slighetst. But inside I’m quietly dying.
I tell the youngest one we’re leaving. I reach out to him to help him, and nearly drop everything I’m carrying. He screams no and tries to hit my hand away. So I walk away. The quiet approval of ‘thank god they’re leaving’ hitting me from all directions.
I hold my head high and stride away. I know he’ll follow me. And he does. But not without a show.
I’m so embarrassed.
It’s been like this all week.
Fighting in the pool. Screams that echo and reverberate all around the room. Fights over the TV and the remote.
That goddamn remote.
I want to throw it in the bin. I’ve had to hide it more times than I can count. In my underwear, in the fartherest cupboard behind random things. In the bathroom, in plain sight andin the one place they haven’t found it yet — the dryer.
I thought it would be a fun, relaxing week away. Just me and my kids. Lots of fun activities and of course the pool — or pools, because there are two. And truthfully, there have been fun times. But there’s also been a lot of chaos. A lot of overwhelm.
Thank god I have a girls weekend planned this weekend. An opportunity to re-regulate my nervous system. No kids. No screaming. No fighting.
Trying to be a good parent to three children who all have big emotions and trouble regulating is really hard. I was never taught how to regulate, so I’m also learning, and trying to teach at the same time.
It looks like embarrassment a lot of the time.
It feels like failure a lot of the time.
But the moments I get it right — and they are able to self regulate — feels like winning the lottery. And so I keep going. Keep showing up. Keep sitting the uncomfortable, in a world that doesn’t always support me.
Carrying a mother’s grief in a world that doesn’t always know how to hold it.
Parenting like this can feel isolating. So, if this piece stirred something in you, you’re invited to join the conversation below. Comments are open to paid subscribers — a small, contained space where we can speak openly and honestly, and be witnessed, together.
With love,
Bryony