I have a confession to make.

I don’t really pay much attention to what medical science has determined is the appropriate age range for my kids to be writing thoughtful prose and reading Heidegger, and I honestly don’t sweat it when they take months longer to do certain things they I am told they should do, that is, unless your kids have done these things well before mine have.

The thing is, I am pretty sure most parents are aware that each child is different, but are afraid their kid’s difference may be a sign there is something wrong. Whenever a bunch of parents get together, we compare our children against each other. I have to wonder why.

For example, my daughter is an amazing and brilliant kid who can sing any song she hears, has a great knack for playing the piano, and will spend hours creating a single piece of art. Why is it when I hear about kids her age or younger reading really well I feel as though she is somehow performing below her expectations?

I am competitive by nature, that’s why. I have a hard time letting go of my need to have my kids be better at everything than your kids.

I have to let go of it though, because trying to make my kids better means denying them who they are. There has to be room for our kids to develop a personality. We have to let them become their own little people, with their own little tastes, while at the same time insuring they are healthy and developmentally sound. It’s a high wire act, with constant danger of falling off to one side or the other.

My daughter can read, she just prefers to paint, much like I can do math, but prefer to write. There is nothing healthy about me forcing her to sit and read for hours on end, when she would rather be painting, or drawing, or singing. So long as I know she isn’t actually having trouble reading, I should be satisfied.

But still, I feel that little niggle of unease whenever your kids walks earlier, or speaks sooner, or eats more table food. I also feel that little HA of triumph when my kids perform before yours.

I try so hard to choke the life out of those feelings, and to embrace what I know is true; I don’t want your kids! I am sure they are great, but I want my kids!! I want their quirks and preferences, their accomplishments and failings. I want all of them, just the way they are.

So I am walking the fine line between supporting their development, and smothering their individuality.

I bet I can walk it before you do.

I am driving the bus on the highway to mommy hell. It’s the guilt bus! It’s a dark cinnamon red, and covered in swirly black flames. The seats are upholstered in matching velvet. There is plenty of room on board, and I bet each mommy out there has taken a seat for a ride every now and then.

Me? I got so used to being on the bus, I volunteered to drive the damn thing.

There are any number of mommy failings that can get me a ticket for a ride on the bus, too much fast food, too much t.v., not enough interactive play with the kids (“No I can’t play with you now, Mommy is blogging”). I am guilty of small shame-worthy infractions every day.

However, there is one thing I do, one aspect of my personality, that makes me hop on the bus for the long haul.

I am a yeller. I have a hard time not raising my voice when the buttons have been pushed one time too many.

I know what you’re thinking. “C’Mon now Scylla, everyone can yell when their buttons are pushed. This is nothing.”

You have never heard me yell.

In my first life I was a theater fiend. I spent from age 9 to age 19 projecting the smallest whisper to the point that it could be heard throughout an auditorium filled with people. My voice is a power that should only be used for good, like “Look out! Car!!” or “The Groom has something he wants to say everyone, please quiet down!” I can raise the roof with the sound of my voice. I am really, really loud.

When I am really angry I can yell loudly enough that I give myself a headache, instantly. I can also yell loudly enough that I terrify my kids, sending them into shocked tears, sending them running from the room.

I don’t yell often, because it’s horrible to see the looks on their faces, but sometimes the yell slips out. It fights free. It says “Look!! I have been sensible and reasonable and calm and quiet through a day full of argument and not listening and mis-behaving!! I am coming out damnit!” Then it roars forth, from my throat, over their scared faces, into the house, up the stairs, out onto the street. It leaves them forcibly subdued, their tear stained faces turned away from me.

It never feels good after. I don’t get results, or better listening. I don’t feel any release. I just feel really guilty, and sad that my kids were scared of me. I try really hard not to yell again. I can go weeks without doing so, but then there will be a day when I didn’t sleep enough, or Monkey is particularly argumentative, and the loud angry beast will start chomping at the bit. I will inevitably lose the fight for control, and my yelling will land me squarely in the driver’s seat of the Red Velvet Express Bus to Mommy Hell.

So, when you come on board the bus for any of your mommy infractions, please be sure to tip your driver.