I can hear my parents’ raised voices upstairs. They are fighting again. I turn on the sink faucet, letting the sound of the running water drown out their voices. I thrust my hands in the nearly scalding hot water and methodically scrub each dish in the sink and load it in the dishwasher. Then I do the hand wash, soaking, scrubbing, rinsing, drying, and carefully putting away each piece. The ritual of tidying up the kitchen eases my anxiety about my parents’ argument. I can’t stop them from arguing, but I can make our home a cleaner and more pleasant place to live in hopes of soothing the frustration and hurt feelings.

My dad always occupies himself with something after a fight to let off steam. My mom usually cries. When I hear my dad turn on the TV, I creep upstairs. My mom is sitting on the floor in her room, back against the wall, knees drawn up to her chest, wiping at the tears streaming down her face. I slowly and carefully seat myself on the floor in front of her, my chin resting on my knee. I wait for her to talk. I don’t remember what their fight was about; I just remember that my mom needed someone to listen and validate her thoughts and feelings. I listened. She needed someone to reassure her that it was my father that was being unreasonable, not her. I reassured her.

One time I was the one who triggered negative emotions for my mother. My mom wanted help cleaning the house, and my siblings and I, being typical children, were resistant. My mom snapped and flew into a rage. Stomping about and cursing, she shouted about how no one ever wanted to help her. As my siblings scattered to their rooms to begin cleaning, frightened into compliance by her wrath, I sank to the floor in tears, harshly berating myself for allowing this to happen. My mom had been in a good mood. Why hadn’t I just done what she asked? My mother’s happiness was such a fragile thing. Why had I ruined it?

When I moved away from home for the first time to attend college in another state, one of the biggest differences I noticed was the lightness and freedom I felt. It was like a great burden had been lifted from me. I no longer carried the weight of responsibility for other people’s emotions. I didn’t need to keep anyone happy except me. And without the weight of all those negative emotions from other people to manage, the happiness came easy.

I find myself raging at my own children now. The frustration builds up and boils over, and I find myself shouting angrily as I tightly squeeze a shoulder or an arm to communicate my displeasure and force them into compliance. I wonder how I have become my mother and how I can learn to handle feelings of frustration in a calmer, kinder way. I wonder if I am unintentionally laying the burden of my emotions on my children, the way my mother unintentionally laid the burden of her emotions on me. I want my children to know that they are only responsible for their own emotions, no one else’s, but I fear that my words and actions are subconsciously sending a different message.

Changing behaviors that were modeled for us growing up is such a challenge. My mom raged, but she also apologized. I am grateful for this example because I feel like it is the one positive tool I have in my toolbox right now. At least when I mess up I can apologize and keep striving for something better.

Author Bio: Angela Hess discovered her passion for writing nonfiction when she started a blog following the birth of her first child as a creative outlet and a way to process this new stage in her life. Writing keeps her sane in this crazy stage of mothering multiple small humans.