Bad Mom: Blinding Rage

Unfortunately, the angrier I am, the more difficult it is for anyone to take me seriously. My voice rises three octaves and cracks like a thirteen-year-old’s.

Which is why I found it surprising that my husband didn’t roll his eyes one Saturday morning when I screeched, “He’s not here,” referring to our high school senior.

“Did he head to work already?” my husband asked.

“He’s not working today, and he never came home last night.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course I am.” I threw a jacket over my p.j.’s, slid my feet into a pair of clogs, ignored the fact that I hadn’t even combed my hair and grabbed my purse. “I’m going to yank him home by the ear.”

My husband knew enough to stay out of my way. These kinds of mommy moments are much like a brush with insanity. The boy might have been six inches taller and 50 pounds heavier than me (fine, only 15 pounds, if you want the painful truth), but I was the momma, and I suffered from Blinding Rage.

Some people might wonder if a good mother’s response wouldn’t be concern that her child hadn’t come home. Bald fear, even. But I knew better.

You see, the previous night his father and I had reamed him about something and told him it would be our way or the highway. He’d left the house angry, heading to his friend’s place. And while it wasn’t unusual for him to stay overnight at his buddy’s house, the standing rule was to call and let us know. The fact that he hadn’t done so reeked of disrespect. And it burned me up.

I couldn’t wait to ring the doorbell at his friend’s place. To march past the other boy’s parents, grab my big lug-of-a-kid by the ear, parade him out the front door, and make him follow me home in his car like so much chopped liver. If he wanted drama, he would get it.

Which is why it was a good thing I had my cell phone on me. And that my husband called just as I pulled to the curb behind my son’s vehicle.

“What?” I barked, not willing to be rationed with.

“Are you there yet?”

“I’m outside.”

“Come home.”

“No. He’s not going to treat us like this.”

“Caron, he phoned. He left messages on my cell and on the house phone. They must have both been on silent.”

You know that feeling you get when you realize you narrowly missed making a total idiot out of yourself? It’s very much like when you actually make a total idiot out of yourself, falling just short of the I’ve-ruined-my-child-for-life-how-could-I-be-such-a-bad-mom?-feeling.

I hung up, and then quickly checked my own voicemail.

“Hi, Mom, I’m going to stay over tonight, okay? I tried the other phones, but no one answered. Love you.”

Yeah.

It just doesn’t seem right that my son showed more respect to me than I’d been about to show him. That he’d gotten over his anger, and I had relished mine. When I confessed to him later, he smiled, put his arm around me, and simply said, “Oh, Mom.”

But he did. And I can only hope that means that despite my occasional ranting lunacy, I’m not such a bad mom after all.

Caron Guillo’s now-married son has declared he’s no longer calling home for recipes. Ew. Visit Caron’s A WORK IN PROGRESS blog at http://caronguilloswriting.blogspot.com.