living after the death of a baby, living with Autism, living as a family of six, living on our organic homestead, living miserably, hopefully, and with joy, and somedays just living

It comes up, every now and then, that I give off the impression of being infinity patient and long fused.  I don’t know where that image comes from. Perhaps, it’s my conscious attempt to keep the fiery tempered me concealed.  I once was so infuriated I threw a stack of bowls only for the satisfaction of seeing them smash into a million pieces.  Being tempered glass the pieces were near a million.

This isn’t to say I love raving and shouting, I don’t, I hate it.  I always feel so pulled apart afterward, ashamed, I couldn’t keep it together.  My mother used to shout, so often going off on crazy tangents, that we just stopped listening.  I don’t want to be the crazy yeller.

Today I hit my limit.  I called Kyle at work and shouted until I had made my point 4 or 5 times over.  The kids kept to themselves playing in the other room.  Even at this age there’s a sense of  “Don’t go in there Mom’s hit the crazy button”.  Finally Kyle and I come to some sort of agreement, or a least a recognition of my frustration.  I win the argument.  I should feel better, and I do.  But I lose, because my kids have seen an example I would rather not set.  Oh, and can I see the same temper in Petra, whew.

I wish I could tame the fire that blazes within me, and licks at my throat until, hot angry words escape wildly scalding the one who must hear them.


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