This week Ben's favorite songs are surprising to me. One is called O Precious Sign, and is frequently played at weddings. But considering how seldom he attends them it is intriguing. He plunks it out on the piano, and gets most of the right notes. The other song is an old standby, My Grandfather's Clock. He belts it out, smiling broadly. I am not sure he has ever seen a Grandfather's clock, or heard one chime. But that doesn't deter his pleasure. There is a line about "a blooming and beautiful bride" that makes me catch my breath. Does Ben have feelings about this? Does he aspire to marriage? I am afraid to ask.

Sometimes I hear about brides who are as angry as those birds. The dynamic goes something like this: She has expectations of how her husband will spend his time. He does not have any for her, except that he stay clear of her wrath. He tries to appease her, by fixing things around the house, going to work. But her needs are unquenchable. There is no day when she says "That is enough. You are enough."

In some families the kids and dad are fortified in their efforts to steer clear of mom. One of my dearest friends remembered her mother in a constant state of simmering rage. She eventually divorced her husband, but the anger never subsided. She found new objects for her discontent.

The lowest point in my own mothering was when I had four little ones and not enough money. John was scrambling to bring home a paycheck from a minimum wage job, but he was wrong before he stepped in the door. My criticism was unrelenting. The list of complaints was long, and I hung on to it with both hands.

Then I looked in a mirror. Instead of focusing my scrutiny on him, I reflected on myself. I was not much to come home to. The stress was sapping us of all joy, and I was more of a part of the problem than the solution. 

These days I am less of a slave to my anger. I can even pick it up and toss it across the room, which leaves more room for laughing.