Does my anger make me a bad mother?

This is not an easy one to write. Anger is a bad thing, right? And anger and women is very bad; she historically was labelled as hysterical and out of control on the brink of insanity who needs straightjacketing. A dominant message for a woman seems to be 'be nice, smile and get on with it'. 


Of course we feel the anger. And I wonder, how and where does it get expressed? What's the damage and cost of the silent simmering anger cum rage? 


Man and anger is not unfamiliar and the display of public aggression is a common occurrence. It seems that they are allowed, from childhood onwards to express, bash, destroy and thrash - the response mostly is a shrugging of the shoulders with a comment along the line of 'oh it's a boy - oh it's a man thing'.


Two examples of male aggression:
1) When I was laying in the hospital bed after the birth of my twin girls I was suddenly feeling very alert, pricking my ears as my heartbeat quickened. What was this noise? I was feeling alarmed and slightly scared. It sounded like a collective roar of voices and for a moment I was convinced war had broken out. I went to the window to see and guess what, it was men playing football!
2) The other week it was school sports day and at the end the parents get to run too, of course women and men separated (why??). I swear I have never ever seen anything like it when the men were running. It felt like they were running for life, that winning was a matter of life and death. Eyes were bulging, bodies were thrusting forward. Momentarily their raw energy and resolve made the air shiver as if a herd of wild animals had just run by. There was definitely aggression in there. And ok some women took it equally seriously but for the most part the women had fun, didn't mind looking ridiculous and it was mostly boobs bobbing up and down!


At least this is a manifestation of anger/aggression of a type of man that seems perfectly acceptable. 


My anger the other day manifested in the morning when first the baby wouldn't eat and I felt frustrated and let vent by letting out some guttural sound like 'aaahhhrgggg'. He didn't seem to be bothered and I managed to feed him in the end but I noticed the girls eying me suspiciously. The next one, and that's the one I would usually feel ashamed and not talk about, was when we got to the usual hair-style discussions that go on every morning these days. The hair style is a big thing at the moment, taken to a real heights the other day by the girls mentioning another girl at school who was wearing a real flower in her hair! (It was probably fake!) One of my daughters asked me to do a hair-style and after it was done, she decided she didn't like it pulled it all apart and blamed me for not understanding her instructions. I lost it - I shouted at her, she started crying and said stop shouting and I then walked away from her throwing the hairbrush on the floor, which broke in two. I felt immediately pretty stupid, and ashamed.


I told my husband in the evening and he said that breaking the brush wasn't such a bad thing but that he found it interesting that I didn't express my anger directly towards her rather than channeling it through an object. Maybe he has a point. 


Perhaps it is more acceptable for men to show anger and aggression directly and we women are expected not to and therefore go on a detour to express it?


These days I feel a lot of anger and frustration and I notice that it feels like a problematic thing. Many women report anger and rage in the premenstrual period and I am similar there. Again I wonder why it's regarded as such a bad thing. I know that any display of anger of a mother with child makes people around go quiet and everybody retreats embarrassed, pretending that it's not happening. A lot of mothers admit and say 'oh I have been shouting again this morning'. But there rarely seems a display of that publicly. If it is, like the other day in the park, I noticed that there was an us and them narrative going on whereby she was this bad mother from the housing estate and we were these proper educated good mums definitely not from the housing estate! 


Perhaps this undercurrent of fear is bubbling away under the surface for all of us where we are terrified that someone will judge and label us as a bad mother. I know I do. Yet it is vital I feel that my children, perhaps particularly my girls because of the socialization of gender, get that anger is a normal emotion. Of course we don't want to be destructive and we don't want to hurt someone (although in relationships that's sometimes inevitable, we are not saints) but I want my children to know that why I feel angry and realise that they have an impact on me. Equally I would like them to be able to express their anger and not eat it! 


Ultimately perhaps it is about need. So often I find we women are afraid to ask for what we need and want and the anger simmers away until it finds a trigger and we explode. 


So maybe, forget about the good and bad mother, it's a construct anyway, and try and tune into what I need and express my feelings when that need is not met, there and then, not tomorrow. Then perhaps the anger does not have to become rage and hate but can be expressed as a positive catalyst for change!

The placenta is coming out of the freezer

Yesterday it was my little boy's first birthday! What excitement, and sense of achievement, and amazement - that a little babe can grow to such a lively active almost toddler! And so we sang happy birthday to him at the exact time he was born - 16:43 - and then .....the placenta came out of the freezer.


Some data: the placenta weighed exactly 400 gr and the placental sack, was an amazingly stretchy membrane cuddling the baby within. It could sit comfortably inside my two cupped hands. It smelled strongly of iron. And it was, well, a piece of meat. And since I am a vegetarian I found that a bit challenging. I touched it several times, but had to wash my hands in between. 


When I told my mother about the placenta coming out of the freezer, she said sarcastically but really with admiration; no doubt you will dance around it naked! We didn't but it is time to say thanks, and no not to eat it, but to give it back to Mother Nature. 


And if she has still some goodness left she can nurture other creatures around her and the yellow new rose bush I bought for the occasion. 



I am happy. I am grateful to have a healthy lively child and grateful that I was able to birth him and the placenta without any intervention, any medication, any invasion. I did it. Just me. With the help of Mother Nature. And what a force that is. The birth was like thunderbolts coming from above shooting through my body into my pelvis and pulling downwards into the ground. 

I entered the tunnel, I was scared, fearful at times that my husband and my doula would abandon me, and sometimes I felt I was doing everything wrong. 

And at the same time, I have never been so sure of myself. I knew I could do it, I knew I didn't want anyone to touch me, I knew that everything was going to be alright. The pain was unimaginable, it was very very painful and I have still a memory of it. But not senseless pain - meaningful pain. It is you together with your child going through the first of many crisis together, it is I feel the first bonding experience. 


So I give thanks and bow to what an amazing unfathomable process nature can take us through. 

Thoughts on the Power of Creation

Here a ray of light. 

I blink. 

It’s the changing of the moods and the weather that are liberating on this island. Every man an island. You don’t stay for too long in the same spot. Move on. Get used to it! 

Change is the stuff of life, of nature. 

I am a mother no matter where I go, what I do. I take her with me. It strengthens my womanhood. It gives me power – coming from the belly. Punch! I can stand my ground. Punch! That’s where my sexuality lies. Punch! I am not a victim of men but victoria of a long line of women who have carried and born children. The force of nature between heart and genitalia; pulsing away, fluttering, pushing, kicking. 

Is it with the exit of that creature of God that we/I struggle? No more united. No more mine. 

Then the question arises who am I? 

Perhaps then the creator of the universe?

The Daughter in me of the Northern Mother

The sky is changing, the clouds become thicker, closer to earth, snow mountains of flock of sheep – in the Sky and on Earth. We're going up North. It forms an important part of my childhood consciousness; where is it located in my adult consciousness? Unnecessary division? But in my adult world there is quite a bit of disdain, perhaps snobbery. It’s brim full with emotions, like their glasses. Too much, too much. And too many tears - stifled silenced voice of me mam. Liberated when she gets there - perhaps not so much anymore as she gets older. My mother is part of me whether I like it or not! Sometimes I am at peace with her, in my mind and heart, and sometimes I oscillate between love and hate in quick successions. The grey clouds are gathering in the sky. North Rain – Rain North. Familiar northern backyards are flying by. The angel of the North. Things become more functional up here. Practical, functional, but not pretty. ‘Have faith in God’ a sign says. Aye. My playlist is called ‘War’. “You’re in a funny mood” he says. The Horns of Lhasa in Newcastle. As we pull out of the station I put the 'Peace' playlist on. My breath is my salvation.  

Alone not lonely

I am alone again. How strange. It is as if I open the door to visit this other woman I leave behind again when I am with the family. Is that right? Do I do that? Who is she? She is more self-assured, stranger, wiser, more in tune, more grounded. Also more sad! Why can’t she be with the family? Can I take her with me? It feels like with others I am so much more (aware of dependency) dependent – weakened by it. Losing my self, this other woman, ISIDORA, the gift of wisdom. I am pulled away from her, pulled apart; I feel like being pulled back to family life at origin. Like my mother, passive. Like my father, excluded. Not always - of course. But these moments are sinking – drowning, at loss of a point of reference, of solace, of consolation, of strength, of power, of backbone, of fighting spirit. There is insecurity, shaking like a leaf, trembling, in the face of a wind, fearing the storm. In reality, I pick myself up, straighten myself and feel power. It’s not all lost. It’s just difficult. 

Dartmouth thoughts

In every pebble the beauty of the world is contained. Every spot seems to be the spot where the beauty has reached perfection. Every pebble is the world; Worlds.......... And I am consoled. I am temporarily appeased. I wasn’t just before. And the day before. Who am I? Who am I if I haven’t got my work, my profession, my husband, my children, my things? The illusion of identity, which changes depending on situation and people. But only a few, they are interchangeable and mostly compatible. But what if I am stripped of it all? What remains? My intellectual understanding (belief?) - Says the soul. But I am not ready yet to dispense of titles, things, people. What would happen to me if I was left to my own devices, bare of extensions and appendices? Would I succumb and die or would I discover my treasure? I can not possibly contemplate that - yet. For now I take consolation in the beauty of the pebbles and stones – natures’ soul. 

The loneliness of being a mother

Now and again a yawning loneliness seeps into the daily life of looking after a baby. I've had this before with my twin girls. A deep wariness that envelopes an invisible, nondescript me who is drowning in the endlessness and boredom of feeding, sleeping, changing nappies, playing, feeding, sleeping, changing nappies...... And the other mothers too. In those days we all put on a brave smile, display our best behaviour and play at being such a wonderful and engaged mother. The truth is today I want to resign from this job. The truth is today I feel utterly depressed and lonely. In vain I try to reach out, to someone, something, anything - until I succumb to the lonely gaping hole. I have learned that there is value in not escaping this hole and not filling it with chit-chat, gossip, or senseless doing but - to sit still and see what happens. More often than not nature is my great friend and helper. The gentle swaying of the leaves in the wind, the accompanying rustling sound, the bird's song, the beetle crawling over a stone; the rhythmical beating of the drum - the universal hum. And suddenly there is an opening in the hole, light seeps through, speckles of greys and whites. And my heart rejoices. I have a gift. I am a gift! And I break out into a song of jubilations and celebration of life. And the baby squeals.