Convolutedly inconsolable

Lately my kids and I have been fighting. Clara's been teething, Nathan has not been wanting to nap, and I'm trying to make them behave in a way that doesn't make me want to pull my hair out. All day and (feels like) all night, battling. They've been winning, and I'm a sore loser.

I've been reading this book by Roy Blount Jr. lately, Dispatches from Up South. Here's a tidbit that reminds me of me this week:

I noticed that a woman I grew up with, hadn't seen for thirty years probably, had showed up to hear my talk. We had a drink afterward, and she told me, "That was interesting, how angry you said your mother was. My mother was always furious at home."

 "No. Really? But we always thought she was always so cheerful."

"That's what we thought your mother was."

Wow. Could it be that all the mothers I knew growing up were perkily lightsome to their neighbors and friends and convolutedly inconsolable by their loved ones at home?

 I know that's the battle of being a mom. You're there for your kids--all the time. And they can make you kind of crazy. But I don't want to be that mom, angry all the time, making the house not a fun place to be.

There's always next week, right? It's bound to be better than this one.