You Won't Like Me When I'm Angry...

Just the other day (which is usually a way of saying "it was recently, I don't remember when the hell it was"), my son (Eric) was climbing his chest of drawers.  We've told him numerous times not to do this.  The chest of drawers is not very heavy; we only keep baby clothes in it.  When he climbs it, it easily tips.  Such was the case on this "other day."  (Whenever the hell it was.)

Joy and I were in the other room.  I don't remember what we were doing any more than I remember "when the hell it was."  All I remember is hearing numerous crashes, followed by Eric's shrill screams.  "What the hell?" I said as I stood up to walk back into his room.  Joy quickly jumped to her feet and ran in ahead of me.  Finally, after many many attempts to keep him from climbing his chest of drawers, and after many months of worrying about what would happen if he disobeyed us, it had happened.  Eric had pulled the chest of drawers down onto himself.  Clothes were everywhere.  Eric was buried under a pile of white wooden drawers.

Joy rushed to Eric and removed him from the "rubble."  She quickly checked him out.  No cuts.  No scratches.  No blood.  Not even any bruises.  Eric hadn't really hurt himself (thankfully).  He was just scared.  So Joy comforted him.  She held him in her arms, placing his head on her soft, warm breasts.  (Ahhh... I love those breasts.)

Meanwhile, I stood over both of them, nostrils flaring, teeth grinding, fists clenched.  I felt the rage of God (or perhaps the demons) rush through me.  I wanted nothing more than to take my hand and slap it across Eric's face, screaming, "You see?  That's what you get for doing stupid shit!"  Oh, I wanted to hit him.  I wanted to hit him hard.  And I wanted it to hard.  Bad.  I wanted it to hurt so badly that he never (ever) even thought of climbing that chest again.  I wanted to leave a scar so deep that he would feel my strike every time he so much as stepped within three feet of that chest of drawers.  Sure, it would probably result in him feeling my strike every time he stepped within three feet of me.  But it would be a small price to pay to keep him from scaring me like that again.

I didn't hit him.  As much as I wanted to hit him (and perhaps Joy as well, just for being there), I didn't.  I just stood there, nostrils flaring, teeth grinding, fists clenched.  Even as Joy took Eric out of the room and I cleaned up the mess, I wanted to make Eric hurt for what he did to me.  What he did to me.  That's when I realized that when I get scared, I get angry.  And when I get angry, I want to hit something.  No, I want to destroy something.  Most of the time, I want to destroy Joy.  (Fitting, really.  When I'm angry, I want to destroy Joy.  Anger hates other people being joyful.)  On this occasion, I wanted to destroy Eric.  And the thing is, Joy knew that.  As soon as she heard the crash, she knew that's how I'd be.  That's why she rushed to get into the room before me.  Sure, she felt the urgency of making sure Eric wasn't seriously hurt.  But she also knew that if I reached him first, I could (and would) likely destroy Eric.  She knew she had to get to him first to prevent me from doing something I would later regret (and I would have).

I talked to Joy about this later.  She told me that that reaction wasn't necessarily unnatural.  When something potentially dangerous happens to our children, we first react in fear.  We worry that something terrible has happened to our children.  And when we learn that they are okay, we hug and kiss them and thank God that no real harm was done.  Then we turn on a dime.  We suddenly become filled with intense anger.  Anger at our children for bringing that fear to us.  That fear led us to anger.  That anger leads us to do whatever we can think of to make sure they never (ever) even think of doing whatever they did again.  For some of us, it's a simple squeeze of the arm.  For others, it's yelling at our children.  For others, it's a swift spanking.  For me, it could have been a swift, firm, open hard across the face.  That's what I wanted on that "other day."  (Whenever the hell it was.)  I wanted to destroy Eric.  At least I wanted to destroy any chance of ever climbing that chest of drawers again.

When I get scared, I get angry.  When I get angry, I seek to seriously hurt... something.  Or someone.  I seek to destroy.  Like the Incredible Hulk, my arms bulge out, ripping through the sleeves of my shirt.  My skin turns a sick green.  I grow ten feet.  My weight quadruples.  Everything that is me leaves temporarily, trapped inside this mutation that has resulted from a chemical reaction in my brain brought on by intense fear.

Moral:  Don't ever scare me.  If you scare me, I will destroy you.