I put an empty plate in my child’s wardrobe, and the honest reason had very little to do with the plate
All I wanted was a yoghurt
Why do I overreact as a mom? It’s a question I’ve asked myself more than once, usually at the open door of the fridge.
This morning I opened the fridge for a yoghurt. That was the entire plan: one yoghurt, a spoon, and perhaps four minutes of peace. Then the day could get its hands on me. What I found instead, on the shelf where any sensible person would keep a yoghurt, was an empty plate. A knife and fork were still sitting on it.
Now, I don’t know about your fridge, but I am pretty sure mine doesn’t house fridge fairies. They don’t flutter around at night doing fridge fairy things. Somebody put that plate there and ate from it over what I can only assume was a long and grazing day. Then they returned it to its shelf, cutlery and all, as though the fridge were a very small, very cold dishwasher.
A repeat offence
As it turns out, this is a familiar experience for me. I have three children, only one of whom is still at home. Two of them have been repeat offenders over the years, and the pattern never varied. I’d imagine this is how it works: dinner goes onto a plate and into the fridge for later, which is how the knife and fork come to be there. Then, instead of taking the plate out to eat the remainder like a person with a table, they stand at the open door and pick at it until, eventually, the plate ends up empty. Why? Just why? Does it not strike anyone as strange to leave an empty plate in the fridge, with the knife and fork, I might add? Apparently it does not.
Over the years, my reactions have been varied. There are mornings when I literally explode, because the plate turns out to be the last straw. Someone has put their dirty cereal bowl in the clean dishwasher (credit for getting it into the dishwasher at all? I’m still deciding), or I’ve grabbed the milk and found an empty carton waiting for me. You can probably understand the explosion. On other days I dive straight into lecture mode. It has a lovely sense of purpose about it and no effect whatsoever.
The wardrobe
Today’s response was pure evil, and I am going to be honest about this. I found absolute delight in it. I took said dirty plate with its knife and fork companion and deposited the happy trio inside my child’s wardrobe. Lesson learned? Maybe. Point made? Also maybe. Childish? I plead the fifth.
Honestly, it was satisfying for about as long as it took to close the door.
Then I stood there wondering how a plate had taken me from calm to wardrobe frustration in under a minute. The answer had very little to do with the plate (the wardrobe, I’ll admit, was a stretch).
Why do I overreact as a mom? Underneath the plate
It had far more to do with always being the one who notices. There’s the plate, the carton and the bowl in the clean dishwasher. Behind them is a small, relentless list of things that are nobody’s job and therefore somehow mine. By the time I reach the fridge, I’m already carrying all of it. The plate only had to be the right size to tip things over. A feeling like that has to go somewhere. When there isn’t anywhere obvious for it to go, a child’s wardrobe starts to look like a reasonable option.
I love these people more than I can say, and yet there are moments when I want to do more than put a plate in the wardrobe. This is the part I suspect many of us feel and rarely say out loud, so I’ll say it for us: I would happily have rubbed every bit of bacon and egg grease not only inside the wardrobe but across the keyboard, which is every teenager’s holy grail. Does anyone actually dare me?
If you’ve ever heard yourself mid-reaction and thought, I don’t even like this version of me, you’ll know exactly what I mean. The voice is yours and the words are coming out of your mouth. Some other part of you is standing slightly to one side with its arms folded, wondering who that is.
Plate or pile?
Here is what I’m taking away from the wardrobe, in case it’s useful at your own fridge door. Next time the flare arrives, I’m going to ask myself whether I’m reacting to the plate or to the pile. The plate is the thing in front of me, small and fixable and slightly ridiculous. The pile is everything stacked up behind it, the carton and the cereal bowl and the hundred other things I noticed before breakfast. It is nearly always what the shouting is about.
Once I know which one I’m dealing with, I look for the need underneath it. Then I try to say it in one plain sentence before it comes out sideways. Something like, “I’d like some help carrying the noticing.” That is a good deal less dramatic than a plate in a wardrobe, and it has a better chance of being heard. It won’t stop the cutlery turning up in the fridge. It does give the feeling somewhere to go that isn’t a child’s bedroom.
If you try it, I’d love to hear whether yours turns out to be a plate or a pile.
Want to look at your own pile?
If the plate is only the latest of many moments that went from calm to wardrobe in under a minute, this might be for you. I’m running a small online workshop called Why Do I Always React Like That? It’s on Wednesday 9 December, 12.00 to 1.30pm UK time, with twelve of us on Zoom at lunchtime (not recorded, so you can say the honest thing). We’ll look at the pattern underneath the reaction and the part nobody mentions, which is the replaying afterwards. Book your place here, and if you book before 25 November you get the early-bird price.
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