When I was a little girl, I can remember the one time Mama got angry with me enough to hit me. We normally got along very well. My father was the main disciplinarian in our household. Mama just didn't have it in her to stay upset with her children. Of course, we did have a trick up our sleeves. Mama could be distracted from her anger if we made her laugh.
Daddy didn't laugh at us as easily as Mama. We knew what buttons to push to make her happy. We always knew when Mama got upset that it wouldn't last long anyway. She wanted us to love her, not to be angry with her. This meant we could run wild when Daddy was gone as long as we were out of sight. See, Mama was a reader. She would get lost in her books. So as long as we weren't fighting with each other, Mama was free to read her books.
Well, this approach definitely had its benefits, but it also meant we got away with a lot while Daddy worked. Daddy tended to work away from home quite often.
The one time Mama got angry with me enough to hit me stands out in my mind for two reasons. It took a lot to make Mama that angry. We were a lot alike, so I was good at staying out of trouble with her because I knew how her mind worked. Children can sometimes pick up on things like that, which makes it a little harder to discipline them. Mama never hit me at any other time. The second reason I remember it well is because of the horrible way it made me feel afterwards.
I was not necessarily a “good” child so much as a child who learned to not get caught at doing wrong. My younger brother didn't seem to catch on to that concept. He got in trouble quite often.
I loved my mother deeply and knew she loved me. She never once caused us to doubt her love for us. She was quick to forgive and hug her children. She enjoyed laughing with us and teaching us, learning with us, and watching us grow and change.
The turbulent teens caused me to become one of those bad girls in hiding. I was good at hiding it from my parents, that is. But that day, I turned into a spiteful, mean person and let my temper get control of me. I committed the sin of yelling at my mother that I hated her. She slapped me, hard. I knew the second the words flew out of my mouth that I was wrong. I had hurt my mother. I felt lower than dirt. I had not minded her slapping me so much as I minded that I had actually said those terrible words that I knew were not really true. My mother definitely did not deserve to hear them. I knew she tried her best to be a good mother, and I was acting like a brat.
Never again did those words pass my lips. No matter how disgusted I may get with some of Mama's decisions in life, I know very well that I could never tell her that again. I know I love my mother. I know I got better than I deserved from her. I realized after I had my own children how much she sacrificed to give to us, both in material things and from her heart. I learned how easily it is to be hurt from your own flesh and blood, your precious children. I learned how precious a mother's love is. I learned to finally mean it when I would say I'm sorry to my mother. I apologized many times for the things I had put her through as a child once I had my own children to teach me about motherhood. I also thanked her, for everything she had taught me without even realizing she was teaching. Because of my mother's love, I was able to love my own children whole-heartedly.
