Who me? No, I don’t get angry at my kids.

When they’re all running in opposite directions, and all I can do is make a split second decision. Chase the one in the most imminent danger, and hope the other two either come to their senses or are stopped by some arbitrary onlooker. No. I don’t even think of screaming like a mad woman.

And no my neighbors don’t know all of my children’s names. Not because I have time to chat with them in the front yard, but because they hear me yelling all their names just trying to get everyone into the car.

Ok. So, for the second summer in a row I have enrolled in an anger management class for parents. Yes, the second summer. I do recall the general idea of what we went over last year. And no, it is not going to change any. But, a year of mothering can wear you down.

Besides last year I had two, mostly stationary, one year old twins. And was concerning myself largely with not killing my then three year old son. Whose sole purpose in life seemed to be seeing how many times he could cheat death in one day. And fascinating himself with how many different colors my face would change in the process.

I have to admit, it really did help last year. Mostly because I was honestly surprised, and completely relieved, to see a whole room full of parents who felt like they were going to have to go on blood pressure medication just to make it through another day. And an instructor who had developed a method for dealing with this simply because she had wanted to keep from killing her own kids.

But, this year I’m a bit more skeptical? Cynical? I don’t know.

But, I have my doubts about how much it is going to help this time around. Maybe because I already know what magical potions she uses and have not been able to readjust them to my current situation?

I feel like I have tried every trick in my book. But the little monkeys seem to know they have me outnumbered. And I’m pretty sure they have been spending some silently plotting against me. Although I have yet to confirm my suspicions.

So, I arrive at the first meeting. Half an hour late. Not on purpose. That is really when I thought it started.

But, they haven’t even gotten through half of the intros yet. So, I haven’t missed much. Aside from coloring in a name tag. You know, one of those big fold it three times to make a triangle deals. That you did in elementary school with fat crayons and lots of swirly flowers, if you are a girl.

Well, apparently one person in particular really remembers those days. Because straight across the table from me is the swirliest floweriest name tag you have ever seen. In three different colors no less. Clearly this mom is enrolled in the wrong class. Who has time for swirly flowers when you’re in Anger Management?

I skip the crafty name card because it would require me to walk into the middle of the room while another mom is regaling her tale of woe about how difficult her late in life two year old can be when she throws her plate at the dinner table. I try to hold a straight face when I hear this. But, can’t help but think how much her life sounds like a vacation.

Now before you go stalking off to the PC police. I HAVE been there. The mother of one child that gets all of your attention and therefore everything he or she does is the crux of your existence. My first born was in that very position. I carried him in the bjorn all day long, nursed him to sleep, and let him sleep in our bed. We went to the park, had playdates with other moms of one, and lived quite happily.

Right up until the preterm contractions with the twins. When he got a nineteen year old babysitter that allowed him to get away with even more than I had previously. And most of my friends with one, even two, were at a loss for what to say when I told them I was having twins.

I would love to have the kind of calm and peace that these mothers seem to embody, maybe even to the point of jealousy sometimes.

Most days, I have to not only divide myself physically and mentally between three kids under the age of five. But, I also have to keep them from breaking and or killing each other, as well as themselves. That does not afford me much time for peace and serenity in my day to day life.

Especially since at four and two they have no sense of what it really means to be broken and or dead. But, are willing to test the outer limits of what it takes to get them there as often as the possibly can. Most especially while I’m trying to make dinner. And all of this chaos seems to have rendered my sympathy button quite inoperable these days.

But I digress. Back to class. The intros continue and finally it is my turn. I apologize for not having a name tag and introduce myself and my current living conditions with the ages and genders of all my children. Yes it is very AA style. And maybe it is just my imagination but there seems to be an awkward pause in which I imagine everyone in the room scooches just a little bit further away from me so as not to catch the insanity in which I live. Just in case it might me contagious. Then comes the response, “Well who is putting all of them to bed tonight?”

Is this a trick question to see if I just left them all alone at home, or is there a legal limit to how many children can be left at once with their own father?

I answer, “I imagine my husband will try. But who knows how many will still be up when I get home.”

They laugh a courteous chuckle. But, I know full well they will ALL be up. But, who admits that to a room full of parents?

Finally, my turn is over. And feeling quite like the worst case scenario of the class I decide maybe this is my last day of attendance. But, then I recognize another mother of twins. And she introduces her kids (same number and set up as mine) and her living conditions (just few years advanced of mine). Then she adds how much help she feels she is in need of.

And instead of feeling like my hole just got darker, since she is where I’ll be in two years time, I was just happy to have another woman in my boat! Even if we were taking on water quickly. At least if there are two of us, someone is more likely to throw us a line and bail us out!

Then we are assigned the job of coming up with a list of things we as a class must do to respect the privacy and integrity of the class. All of which I’m probably breaking in one way or another by writing this. But, since I don’t plan to reveal anyone’s true identity and writing makes me a happier (and therefore less angry) mom, we’ll just call it homework.

The instructor finishes the class by giving her description of what developmental level at which certain age children really are. And while I only remember the ones that are useful to me. The greatest part is to have someone else, who has never even met your kids, tell you that four year olds around the world are nothing more than two year olds with more articulate verbal skills. Judgement, listening to directions, and learning something the first time are inherently useless skills to them at this time.

The analogy I love and hate the most:

If human children lacked the desire to test their limits after a negative outcome, they would never learn anything. Nursing, eating, crawling, walking, talking. All of these things take practice and require trial and error along the way. Even in the face of failure. They are hard wired to try try again. It is part of their wiring to try out different things including those you think they should not be doing, or have told them ten thousand times today not to do, just to see what the outcome may be.

I love this one because I can relax and blame some of this craziness on human nature, and not my personal inability to control my own children. And I hate it because it means I’m fighting an uphill battle to keep them alive that they were wired for at birth!

And this is just the first day of class. See ya next week!

The saga continues HERE.