Taking My Temper-atcha

“What’s your temper?” my writing buddy asked. (Maybe she meant temperament.)

“Depends,” I said. “When my Depends need changing, I’m cranky. Yuk yuk!”

OK. There ya go. In my family of origin, I was the designated deflector, anger-dance-arounder, and  de-escalator of rage, the clown to change the subject when storm clouds gathered in the living room. When Mom & Dad - and later, Mom and Step-Dad or Mom and my older brother - were gloving up to duke it out, I’d point out the poor butterfly struggling in the web in the corner of the dining room.

I’d re-direct rather than engage the rage. That role became my default setting.

As my chosen and created family grew, I became aware of the costs of sublimating my own anger. It was safe enough in my head to express upset, frustration, even roiling anger, but my teeth were wearing down from grinding and it took me a long while to unhook myself from the default settings of deflect, freeze, or bite my tongue.

I keep the cookie sheet with the dented-in corner from where it hit the wall about twenty-five years ago as I hurled it across the room in protest of my husband’s retreating figure. He’d made some snide remark and walked away. He chose not to engage and listen to how that made me feel, and it infuriated me. I had no intention of hitting him with the cookie sheet, but the swift swing of my arm and satisfying thud of metal impacting wood about twelve feet from his back were satisfying. I keep it as a trophy; a testament to the power of my Irish red-hot tempered temperament when unleashed. It’s also still a useful cookie sheet.

On a late-winter Saturday last year, my older daughter held a crafts day in her cozy home. She had invited her entire Montessori training class of eighteen, but only two came with their mothers in tow. So, we were three mother-daughter duos sipping hot soup and munching crudités, paleo persimmon bread and peanut chicken saté. We fashioned felted wool into pincushions and topped them with small beaded wire handles. Li Shen, whose mother spoke only Mandarin, translated her mom’s words for my daughter: “Oh, your mother is so calm. She must be Montessori Teacher.” My daughter Mosa and I both laughed. I joked that I put all my yoga students to sleep with that yoga teacher voice. Li Shen said directly to me, “Oh I see you with children all around you so calm so happy.”  

While I did enjoy teaching toddlers, and still like hanging out with young-uns, I say, “You’ve got to go camping with people for at least forty-eight hours before you can judge their temperament.” 

Maybe longer!

Watch out for tempers that may throw things atcha!