“Beware the fury of the patient mother”*

There are moments lately where I find myself teetering on the edge of composure, sanity, respectability – call it what you will. It’s as if the most insignificant incident could send me over the edge into an abyss of rage. And there, I’d revel. I’d shout and swear and there’d be a momentary relief from the relentlessness of motherhood. It sounds dramatic, I know. But the truth is I have these moments often. And maternal rage, it seems, might be more common than I realised…

A quick Google throws up a load of articles, many with tips on how to manage it. Chief among them is articulating the anger, so I’m doing that here for anyone else who may be screaming from the same hymn sheet. Because, while things feel refreshingly ‘normal’ in the aftermath of the intermittent covid measures that permeated the first stretch of family life, Ruby – our little constant beneath it all – continues to evolve. She presses our buttons in new and creative ways everyday as she exercises dominion over me and her dad.  

The demands on us as parents have changed. We’re no longer trying to pacify a preverbal baby but negotiating with a full-on person. And she’s a tough negotiator – a born professional. As I read somewhere in the early days (and howled at, because I hadn’t understood how accurate it would turn out to be), toddlers have nothing to lose. She cares not for how late we will be, whether we will get drenched in the rain or if her parents are teetering on the aforementioned edge of reason.

Ruby’s priorities are clear: she wants our undivided attention, to play, to watch unlimited amounts of television and to be provided with snacks on demand. Delays to any of the above will not be tolerated – she will continue to repeat her instruction with increasing volume until it is either met or declined. The latter tends to induce a tantrum, during which she desperately tries to summon tears while making a show of gentle self-harm, watching us the whole time for a reaction.

I am not surprised people end up bribing their children with snacks; I’m truly astonished any parent ever has kept their kids away from sugar beyond the first year. If it wasn’t for the lure of ‘bic bics’ (rich teas) and the dehydrated fruit snacks that Tom’s dad mag ‘Which?’ has recently declared ‘no better than sweets’ (FFS!) I’m not sure we’d have made it this far.

There had to be a trade-off, I suppose, for the hilarious interactions we’ve been having with Rubes, her spontaneous shows of affection, the joy of watching her imagination come to life. It’s the weirdest and most wonderful part of parenting so far – when you see a personality emerge with all the quirks of someone who’s orbited the sun for several decades. It’s strange that somebody so young can seem so complete.

But I mustn’t forget, as my friend who is a psychotherapist told me, that toddlers have not yet developed empathy. As Dylan Moran put it, they are miniature drunks. It seems they will stop at nothing to ensure that they survive and thrive, and that they do so to the soundtrack of Cocomelon. Bizarrely, evolution has not yet enabled the toddler brain to compute that driving their parents to an early grave is not conducive to this end.  

At this point, for the sake of balance, it seems only fair to admit that my pre-parent patience levels were suboptimal. I’ve always been a bit hot headed and I’m increasingly in awe of those people who radiate calm, unwavering composure. As much as I might try to manufacture that vibe externally, it’s not unusual for me to be simmering under the surface, ready to bubble over with the next sneezing fit (at least five machine gun sneezes, every bloody time) or the house key that the universe has hidden from my sight.  

Along with other facets of my character that fall short of the model mother – if indeed such a thing exists – looking after the little one puts my patience to the biggest test yet. It seems that Ruby will leave no stone unturned (why do kids like stones so much?) exposing all my shortcomings and forcing me to acknowledge them in the process.

You see, I’m surprisingly self-aware in those moments when I want to trash the room like some clichéd rockstar. I must be, because I don’t. That would involve a lot of tidying up. Instead, I swear under my breath and make a cup of tea and, eventually, resign myself to a temporary madness. I suppose, like Ruby, I’m still learning how to handle my emotions.           

*Post title is the borrowed and amended quote “Beware the fury of the patient man” from Jon Dryden.