I hate this life! my inner child howled. This is not what I signed up for!

I turned the lock of my bedroom door.

Alone. Finally alone. Separated from my offspring by a two-inch thick portal — and it still wasn’t enough.

I threw myself on the bed. Drenched my pillow for 20 minutes. Still heaving, I took out my siddur from the armoire. If you’re going to be the protagonist of a parenting soap opera, at least inject some spirituality.

I turned to Hallel. “Ana Hashem, I am Your servant…” A fresh waterfall of tears.

Right.

Because I always get so emotional contemplating my debts to G-d. For heaven’s sake, this wasn’t real davening; it was a meltdown. I’d had enough — of motherhood. I was quitting. Time for a paid leave; something to the tune of three months.

And it was the only the first day of Chol Hamoed.

I had thought I could hold out longer. But Daniel works long hours in a law firm, and the cumulative stress and emotional drain of almost single-handedly taking care of four young children since Rosh Hashanah (with a few token hours of school in between) proved too much.

I closed my siddur and took a long disgusted look in the mirror. Red ugly blotches on a makeup-less face (no time for beauty). Then, I caught the reflection of our annual family photo. Two beaming parents, four cherubic faces. A farce.

It isn’t all of these cherubs doing me in, I slowly realized. It’s just one. The same one, always.

Seven-year-old Shira was our most beautiful child: kiwi-green eyes, silky red hair, china-doll nose, perfectly placed freckles. She was athletic and slim and radiated confidence. She’d also been our number one life challenge since her debut.

After recovering from her mostly miserable infanthood, we had a set of twin girls and then a boy. But the Shira Challenge seemed to inflate. High-maintenance baby morphed into high-maintenance preschooler. Bright, charming, a social butterfly… and volcanic in her eruptions.

Succos that year featured 14 consecutive vacation days, bringing me to the breaking point. On the first day of Chol Hamoed, I woke up to shrieks from the kids’ room. The clock read 5:52.

Dahlia, one of the twins, stumbled into my bed, a pathetic ball of hiccups. Tears zigzagged past a blood-beaded scratch. “Shira hurt me,” she sobbed. “Tali and I were whispering in bed, and it bothered her. So she got up, yelled, and scratched me!”

Deep breath. Deep, deep breath. I felt my pulse quicken, the adrenaline coursing through my veins. Bury yourself under the covers and come out when it’s all over, my instinct said.

Uh, you’re the adult here, a voice sneered. Besides, this will never be over. This is your life.

Shira’s growls wafted down the hall. “You’re a stinkyhead! I’m gonna slap you!”

“Mommeeeee!”

I hate this life! my inner child howled. This is not what I signed up for!

I straightened my snood, hugged Dahlia tight — too tight — and examined the damage. The scratch was not deep; likely wouldn’t scar. But it was long and red, and it hurt.

Inside, I raged. What is wrong with this kid? Could we pretend, at least until 7 a.m., that this house is not a perpetual battle zone?

Adult rationale finally triumphed. I walked to the room. Shira’s face was dark and glum, lips set in a line. Baby Ari, startled by the noise, moaned from the nursery.

“Why did you hurt Dahlia?”

No comment. A pellet of spit in Dahlia’s direction.

“Was Dahlia’s whispering bothering you?”

“Yes!” she yells. “Every day she bothers me! I hate her!”

“I understand. It’s very upsetting when someone is waking you up. But it’s never okay to use hands. We need to use words. Next time, you need to tell me about the problem.”

You’re a hero, I applauded myself. You stayed calm.

Six crises later, I was no longer a hero. I found myself saying and doing things I’d never said before. “Everyone, take seven steps away from me. This second. When you fight all the time, I feel like going into my room and not coming out.”

Yes, I know. Guilt trips and scare tactics are highly effective disciplinary methods.

When Shira then pinched the baby — the fourth time that morning — I dragged her by the feet, hurled her onto her bed, and slammed the door.

Did I really just do that? I asked myself moments later, still shaking. Am I really capable of such anger, such abuse, such dumb, ineffective parenting?

Apparently, I was. And I needed help.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 467)