By Brittany L. Bergman
@brittanylbergman

It’s one of those memories that I don’t know if I actually remember, or if the story has been told so often that my brain has constructed the scene over time.

In it, I’m three years old, and my Aunt Carolyn is babysitting me while my parents are on a date. Aunt Carolyn sneaks away for a moment to use the bathroom, and as soon as I hear the gurgle gurgle whoosh of the toilet flushing, I lose my ever-loving toddler mind.

 I am wailing as I run up the stairs, shrieking as I lunge for the door: “I WANTED TO DO IT!”

My aunt, a 23-year-old woman who does not yet have children, is shell-shocked at my—ahem—display of emotion. She scoops me up and tries to calm me. “I didn’t know!” she says. “I’m so sorry. Here, let’s flush the toilet again.”

I won’t be soothed; I continue screaming as loud as my lungs will allow. “I wanted to do it!” I screech over and over and over again, five minutes and then ten and then fifteen with no sign of slowing down. My aunt grows concerned that 1) I will pass out from the force of my crying and 2) that the duplex neighbors will hear my screams, think something horrible is happening, and call the police.

As Aunt Carolyn tells it, it took almost an hour to calm me down, and I burst into tears several times later that night when I remembered the flush I missed.

Regardless of whether I have an original file for this memory stored in my brain, I know this is a true story, and I have dozens of real memories like it. Begging my parents to let me hold their hands while they peed so I wouldn’t miss the flush. (Bless them.) Crying inconsolably when I heard a thoughtless flush from halfway across the house. My mom tells me now that she would cringe and steel herself for an apocalyptic meltdown every time she forgot to include me in this bizarre bathroom ritual.

This collection of cobbled-together memories feels more familiar to me at 33 than it ever has. 

***

“Selah, your cereal is ready!”

My three-year-old’s feet pound across the floor, and I can feel her anger in each step. Dread courses through my veins. Shoot. I think. Shoot shoot shoot.

“I WANTED TO POUR THE MILK!”

“Oh Love, I’m so sorry I forgot to ask if you wanted to pour the milk. Can you eat it anyway though? I can’t put the milk back into the carton, and it would be a waste to dump it all out now.”

“No!” Selah tries to knock the cereal bowl off the counter. I can already see the soggy marshmallows and milk creating a sticky puddle on the floor when my hand stops hers a moment before the collision.

A meltdown ensues—crying, screaming, hitting, falling to the floor when I try to pull her in for a hug. My blood reaches a low simmer, well on its way to boiling, and I move the cereal bowl out of Selah’s reach. She continues to flail, and I tell her I’m leaving the room for a minute. I don’t want to explode right back at her as I’ve done so many times before.

I feel my shoulders slump, the breath leave my body in utter defeat. Why is this still happening? I wonder to myself. Is there something wrong with her? Is there something wrong with me? Shouldn’t she be past meltdowns by now? Selah throws a fit when I put the toothpaste on her toothbrush without letting her help, when I peel the string cheese wrapper back just a tiny bit too far, when I drop the color-changing tablet into the bathwater without consulting her, when I buckle the chest clip of her car seat because we’re in a hurry.

But this time, for whatever reason, I’m at my wit’s end. I want to slam the cereal bowl into the sink and let her help me pour a new one so this tantrum will end. I also know parenting is about consistency, and I’m afraid that caving even once will undo all my painstaking work. Once Selah’s crying subsides and my heart stops racing, we come up with a solution together: I eat her cereal for lunch so it doesn’t go to waste, and she gets to help me pour a new bowl. I don’t know if the parenting experts would agree with this strategy, but I lack the energy to care in that moment.

“This is totally out of control!” I tell Dan later. “I know we don’t want to punish the big feelings out of her, but I can’t do this every time! Sometimes I just want to pour the dang cereal and be done with it!”

I’m sure my parents just wanted to be able to flush the toilet and be done with it too.

***

Somewhere along the way, my own big feelings got trained out of me.

I don’t know who or how or when … but I do know that by the time I got to elementary school, I was the very definition of compliant. I did what I was told, was quiet when I was supposed to be, didn’t talk back, and definitely didn’t challenge the rules or question things that I thought were unfair.

But it’s not because I was so incredibly skilled at self-regulating and handling disappointment. It’s because I was afraid.

My parents never did anything to hurt or punish me for my age-appropriate outbursts, but their ahead-of-their-time parenting didn’t protect me from the cultural messages I received from teachers and coaches and my friends’ parents: Your disappointment doesn’t matter. Your pushback is not welcome. You are most loveable when you are most deferential.

*** 

The longer this behavior goes on with my daughter, the more my anger burns inside me, growing with each incident.

I’m angry in response to my fear. That she will never grow out of this. That everything will be a battle forever and ever. That she will have these meltdowns in front of friends and in daycare and at school. That everyone will think I’m a terrible mother who lets her get away with whatever she wants. That the world won’t understand her. That in the absence of compliance, people will not see her as the gentle, sensitive, empathetic, generous, loving child she is.

But mostly, I fear facing who I used to be—who I often still am. I feel deeply uncomfortable when my repressed internal experience collides with her unrestrained external behavior. I chafe against her openness. I seethe over it. I erupt in the face of it. I resent her for it.

I am envious of her freedom.

My daughter is the outward manifestation of everything I have been taught to keep inside. She expresses with her body and her words the things I thought but learned not to act out. She asks for what she wants and names things that aren’t fair and tells people how she wants to be treated.

She has the courage to be the person I always longed to be.

Don’t get me wrong—I don’t want Selah to keep having meltdowns forever. Self-regulation is a learned process, and it’s hard for her. I’m doing my best to help her process and express her big emotions more appropriately. But ultimately, that’s not what this story is about.

When I was a child and a friend’s mom would ask me which flavor of popsicle I wanted, I would freeze and look to my mom for help. I knew what I wanted but was afraid to say it, because in school I had learned that I was supposed to get what I get and not throw a fit.

Selah simply responds, “Strawberry.”

When my friends asked me if I wanted to play Simon Says, even though I hated that game, I went along with it because I was afraid to say no. I wanted the ease of friendship that came along with compliance

Selah says, “No, thanks. I want to play Elsa and Anna.”

When a touchy friend gave me one too many hugs, I was silent because I thought that was the only way to be nice.

Selah asserts, “I don’t want you to touch my body right now.”

At her core, my daughter is a little girl who is well acquainted with her own desires—both because this is her natural state and because I actively champion this in her.

It’s hard—unspeakably, hopelessly hard at times—to parent a child with all the big feelings, all day long.

But my daughter knows what she wants, and at my core, that is exactly what I want.

Guest essay written by Brittany L. Bergman. Brittany is an author who is passionate about telling stories that provide refreshment, connection, and encouragement to mothers who don’t want to lose sight of their identity. She lives in the suburbs of Chicago with her husband, Dan, their two children, and their rescue dog. Her first book, Expecting Wonder, is about the identity-level transformation that makes us mothers. You can connect with her on Instagram or through her email list.

Photo by Lottie Caiella.

Brittany is a member of Exhale, our online creative community. Enrollment for Exhale is currently open; to learn more visit www.exhalecreativity.com.