Throwing Vases: My Anger Issue

This is a confessional post. By no means am I shifting blame by stating that

My mother used to do it. 

Throw vases, that is.  And I don't mean wet clay on a potter's wheel.

As a child, I remember sitting at the dine-in kitchen table next to the stove in our California ranch style house. Something my father said exasperated her so, that with both hands, she grabbed a platter off the range, took one step backwards and smashed it on the floor at her feet. Then crying, she beelined  down the long hall to the safe harbor of the bathroom, a mother's only sanctuary. I can still see my dad knocking on the locked door, pleading with her to open it. "Mother, Come on. Open the door. Open the door, Isabel."


Eventually she did and they kissed and made up. 

My mother in law had a slightly less destructive version of dealing with spousal provocation.
While frying eggs, her man waiting for breakfast at the table nearby, she dealt with her frustration by flipping the egg with an extra thrust in the wrist that hurled it straight up to the ceiling. Sticking for a brief moment the egg dropped to it's untimely not-so- easy-over demise, blood yolk splattered all over. Hubby got the point.

What is it about pitching a pot across a room or dashing a dish on the floor that brings such delicious satisfaction?

Now, before you report this to some social services agency,  let me assure you, no one's ever gotten hurt, the incidents were few a far between.  No people were ever the target of my good right arm. A wall usually was fine, thank you, and the crockery was only mildly damaged.

I thought I put down my addiction 20 years ago when we lived on Wilbur Road in Thousand Oaks. I  had two kids then in the 900 square foot abode. And I can't even remember what incident precipitated it or what impetus fueled it, but I threw something across the living room. I can still taste the relief to this day.

And the regret.

Thinking I had really quit, the habit reared it's ugly head when we relocated to Avenida de Los Arboles, a 1200 square foot apartment, ground floor, all 7 of us did.  I discovered I had little improved recovery from my anger issue. You see, I had moved from throwing vases to bigger things: kitchen chairs.

One day, with the noble effort to be a good mom, we had commenced to baking cookies in the small kitchen. At some point, the clutter, cookie dough and clamoring children pushed me over the edge. In a claustrophobic panic,  I picked up a kitchen chair and threw it out the (open) sliding screen door onto the fenced patio. Thinking about it now, I was probably just trying to make more space for our food project. (Yeah, right!)

Not much improvement at all.

I believe that was the last time I heaved anything.



It's shocking to some that I also yelled a lot. My husband would threaten a time-out when I raised my voice too much. He's always been a bit phobic that I would turn into my father (aren't all spouses afraid of that?) and became the obnoxious Stromboli he was reputed for, shouting and yelling unnecessarily.

My husband just wanted a peaceful house. That's not too much to ask for.

I love that man. Though I have occasionally felt like chucking him out the kitchen slider, too. :)

About when the 4th or 5th child entered their sophomore year in high school, I stopped yelling.

I'm not sure if I've made Anger My Ally, as the book is titled. Or if  my negative emotions have been  transformed into "righteous anger." I'm sure they haven't.

But the house is more peaceful now.

And  I feel better having told you all about it.



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