buried treasure

Yesterday morning I yelled at Gabriel. I yelled loud, while pinning him with one hand and forcing shorts onto his little legs with the other. He had been running away from me. It was time to go to Frances' swimming lesson, and he was refusing to wear clothes and we were running late and I yelled at him, hovering but a few inches over his face. Understandably, he was bewildered and scared. He burst into frightened tears.

The thing about yelling, for me anyway, is that it's hard to stop once I start. It feels like scratching some anger itch. Most days I have a few nasty mosquito bites and most days I scratch them. They itch more and then I scratch more and then they itch more. Occasionally I scratch so hard they bleed. But they still itch! And that is just what yelling is like. It feels so good to yell! Once I open that door, I want to keep on yelling - even though it is only exacerbating my anger and frustration, rather than relieving them. I don't think yelling has ever been cathartic for me. And I know this, even while I'm doing it.

Frances, reveling in Gabriel's naughtiness, reminded me that she was dressed and being very good. I muttered some acknowledgment and hoisted Gabriel into the car, buckling him into his seat and noting his adorable, sad, tear-streaked face. But I was still mad.

By the time we'd arrived at swimming I'd let it go, and I apologized to the kids as we walked together through the parking lot. They were very receptive, if curious about what being "stressed out" means and what exactly made me that way. During Frances' lesson, Gabriel sat on my lap and told me some toddler-style jokes. It was very sweet, but one part of my mind kept remembering how I'd scared him and wondering about the false promises of yelling. Why do I succumb to that temptation, and what other expressions of anger would be more helpful? Did Gabriel understand my apology? Had we both really recovered from the episode?

Even after a fun post-swimming trip to the farmer's market involving sugar cookies baked onto popsicle sticks and covered in rainbow sprinkles, I still felt uneasy. What finally put my mind and heart at peace was time together in the garden. The humidity was unusually low, the mosquitoes were mellow, and we spied one or two potatoes popping up out of the soil, patiently waiting to be picked.

I decided a little while ago that potatoes are my favorite kid-friendly crop. Planting these was a blast, and digging them up is a delight. You start to move the dirt aside, then claw a little deeper, then eventually you hit something smooth and cool.

Like planting the seed potatoes, harvesting these yukon golds is joyful in that it is a meaningful activity I can freely and easily share with the children. I'm not making up little jobs for them. I'm not carefully measuring the flour and then giving them the privilege of dumping it into the bowl - rather we both dig, we both find potatoes, we both shake the dirt off. Together. It's messy, but it's supposed to be.

And the best part, both my children will actually eat potatoes! We cut these up and roasted them with olive oil and salt for dinner. They were even more special because we served them to Mike's parents (aka Grammy and Poppy) who are visiting this weekend.

Digging for dirty treasure, side by side, is what really healed the hurt between me and Gabriel yesterday. Sharing meaningful work did what even the most beautiful lollipop cookie could not; I was able to let go of my mistake, and Gabriel was able to trust me completely again. Next time I complain of all the domestic tasks we willingly take on - the weedy garden, the endless laundry on the clothesline, the bread I need to run home to punch down - remind me of the beauty and joy there is to be found in family work.