the corn story

For years, two embarrassing stories in our family carried a $2 (per person) penalty for the telling. And since my kids earn about $10 a year, the threat was enough to keep my ignominious corn story under wraps (the second story belongs to Stefan and only he can share it).

But I no longer find it shameful or humiliating. Time to come clean. And, no, I’m not paying $2 to each of you.

The summer after Xander was born I was completely overwhelmed. With three little boys racing through the house, one little needy one in my arms and Erik traveling nearly every week, I was a frazzled wreck. And I got into the habit of yelling. Too much. Too often. Out of control.

Even as a little girl, I knew I had a fiery temper. I remember watching the extraordinarily sweet singing leader at church and knowing I had a different set of DNA. Sweetness did not come easily to me. Courage and smarts, yes. But not sweetness. I envied and emulated my mild-tempered friends. My Primary teachers taught kindness and I listened and did my best.

My best was enough for a long time. Until that summer.

Friday night: Erik gone on business. Xander crying and dinner on the stove. I was shucking corn in the kitchen, watching the boys on the back porch, while using my toe to bounce Xander’s little baby seat. My arms were full of corn to rinse in the sink when the boys began banging on the glass kitchen door. The door wasn’t locked, but their arms were full (of what? I forget.) as were mine. As their pounding increased, I feared the door would break and in a burst of anger I threw the corn on the counter. Hard. Seven or eight ears.

Do you know what fresh corn does when you slam it against a hard surface? You probably don’t because you’ve never lost it like I did that night. It EXPLODES. The same force you see when kernels pop over heat, but wet and slimy and all over my kitchen.

Every surface was covered with sticky yellow bits of corn– counter, walls, stovetop, oven, floor, my arms and clothing, even poor baby Xander’s chubby tear-stained cheeks. I stared in horror at what I’d done, began to cry and called my best friend.

For hours we scrubbed the kitchen. Corn starch serves as a substitute for glue in all kinds of fun crafts and all that smashed corn was glued to my kitchen. We gave the kids cereal for dinner, laughed and cried and scrubbed and finally gave up– deciding I’d just have to tackle the job a bit at a time.

As I lay in bed that night, exhausted, one thought kept returning to my mind. The moment of decision. Because I can recall, even now, the moment before, when I had control, but I threw it anyway and created all kinds of work (and mortification) for myself.

Seven years later, when we sold the house, we were still finding bits of corn adhered to a handle or corner of the cupboard.

I knew I had a problem. But I cried and justified and muddled through until school started in August and I went in the first week for an introductory meeting with Ben’s second grade teacher. The kids had filled out a little ‘get to know me’ page with their favorite foods, movies, books and questions such as ‘what makes you happy?’ ‘what makes you sad?’

Under the question ‘what scares you?’ Ben had scribbled “when my mom yells.”

That night I knelt beside my bed, pulled the crumpled paper out of my pocket and begged my Heavenly Father for help. I wanted to be kinder, calmer, less scary. At the moment of decision, I wanted to make the right choice, not the angry one. I was deeply shamed.

Change takes time. I broke my resolve more times than I can count. But I kept praying, begging God for help, practicing calmness and kindness. And I changed.

Gabe and Mary will tell you I never yell. Not even when the water bottle spills across the kitchen counter (and ruins my laptop) or spatter cake batter all over the kitchen.

Oh, they’re wrong, I still yell here and there (especially at cars speeding down our street), but not often enough to remember or loud enough to scare them. I now consider myself extraordinarily patient; it takes a whole lot to ruffle my feathers.

Please understand, I share this not to brag but to encourage. We can change. We can turn our weaknesses into strengths. We are not victims of our DNA or personality type. I often hear stories about ‘she never said an unkind word in her life’ ‘she never complained’ ‘he always had a positive attitude.’ And if I’m feeling grumpy, I think, “Well, I’ve already blown that.” I need to hear stories about people who struggled, yet improved.

Maybe, for someone out there, it will be more encouraging to hear, “She was a stressed out, angry yelling mom but she changed and got better and MUCH happier.” Because we are made for happiness.

And Ben, what scares him now? Spiders. Big, fat spiders. He’ll have to get over that on his own.