Among the various traditions Petra, the children, and I have settled into over the years is a charming one in which, on vacations and family trips, I lose my temper, transform into a spiteful monster, and rage at the children. It is one of the crosses I bear that what I once expected to be my fond memories of exploring the world with my children are shot through with snapshots of these dark moments.
A few years back, the stars aligned such that we were able to make a five-week road trip out west, visiting places like Bryce Canyon, Arches, White Sands, and Rocky Mountain National Park. I didn't make it to the third night before screaming at one of the children so loudly and prolongedly that my throat was still scratched and raw the next morning, and I also woke with what I can only call an emotional hangover that left me almost catatonically mute until lunchtime.
In its extremity, this outburst was the kind of episode that a man swears never to repeat. It was only a few days later when I broke this promise, and that was far from the last time on that trip that I was launched to stratospheric heights of fury by what I experienced in those moments as the children's unconscionable, beyond-the-pale obstinacy, petulance, and selfishness but which was, of course, just kids being kids.
Human memory working the way it does, these episodes are not the first things that come to mind when I recall this trip. The other day I was spontaneously enthusing about what a wonderful experience it had been, and at first I didn't know what on earth Petra meant when she said something like "I'm glad you think so *now*." Then I remembered threatening at once-again throat-blistering volume to abandon the children along the dusty desert shoulder of U.S. Highway 62, on the way from Guadalupe Mountains National Park to Carlsbad Cavern, among many other emotional thrashings I gave the children during those weeks.
I remembered, further, that in the weeks and months after our return, a shortness of temper I'd assumed/hoped had been driven by the exigencies of life on the road had lingered and persisted. It was as if I'd worn such a smooth path to fury's door in my heart that it was now almost certain to be my first and only recourse.
Even more worrying, I noticed that the trip seemed to have depleted the stores of empathy and compassion that had previously reliably motivated me to seek out and comfort the children in the aftermath of my explosions. Where once I'd quickly felt remorse and concern about how my fury was affecting them, now I found myself thinking thoughts like *good, go to bed crying, maybe you'll finally decide to make a change*.
This new coldness in my heart seemed ominous enough that I even entered therapy, although it was an abortive and short-lived attempt. The therapist presented as such a train wreck herself, not to mention that she was always texting while we talked, that I couldn't form the faith that she might be able to help and broke it off after a few sessions. Nonetheless, things seemed to get better on their own.
Over the course of the following months, my emotional state settled out into something like what it had been before the trip, i.e, I was still not shy about screaming from time to time but at least I was willing to say I was sorry afterwards. And in the way of such things, our emotional relations seemed to improve objectively as well, inch by inch, over time. Some of the children's roughest edges have now worn a little smoother, and they have started to show occasional signs of understanding Petra and me not as parental-services automatons but human beings with our own hopes, aspirations, and aversions.
For any parents of young children reading this, let me reassure you. Over time—an admittedly very long time—children do begin to transform from savage, ravening animals into something vaguely—although only vaguely—resembling human beings. At the same time, as you get more accustomed to and better at parenting, you gradually forget how good things were before you had children, and your own hopes and dreams recalibrate such that your eyes will fill with tears of gratitude simply for fifteen quiet minutes in which you can choke your dinner down in peace. So don't worry, in other words—as tough as things might seem at first, it does start to get slightly better after a while. Specifically, in our case, after about a decade.
Anyway, I have shared all of this so that you will be able to understand the significance of the following announcement. This week, Petra and I took the children camping at a state park not far from here. For three days, we swam in the river, built campfires, and slept in a tent. And for the first time in at least a half dozen years' worth of family vacations, I did not rage at the children even once.
If there's anything 2020 is teaching us so far, it's the importance of noticing and celebrating the small victories. In that spirit, I'm pleased to be able to share that, with each passing year, it is seeming increasingly likely that we may be able to make it all the way to dropping these kids off at college without abandoning them in the desert first.
I just hope I'm not jinxing myself.
