My name is Crystal and I’m an Ogre. Yes, Ogre. The freakishly large, smelly, angry, loud mouth, scary kind. As in Shrek. As in, according to Webster’s dictionary meaning, a hideous cruel man. I’m an Ogre. But with a vagina. And three children (and a husband) who bear the brunt of my Ogreness.

My name is Crystal and I’m an ogre. My last episode was exactly three minutes before I started writing this. Over a pile of laundry that I asked my daughter to fold seven days ago. A pile of laundry that has taken up permanent residence in the middle of my bedroom floor - a glaring reminder that nobody in my house does what they are asked, when they are asked. Until mom (aka Ogre) ends up doing it herself.

Or until I throw a huge Ogre hissy fit and then my husband will kick into high gear – folding laundry, cleaning the kitchen, wiping off the ever present hand prints that adorn all of our walls at about 3 feet high, ordering the kids to clean up their Legos from every nook and cranny. All in an effort to appease the beast I have become. After all, we all know if mom’s unhappy, no one’s happy. Or in my house, if the Ogre is unhappy, you better get your shit together quick.

If there was a serenity prayer or motto for the Ogre’s Anonymous it would go something like this:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the fact that my house will never be completely clean, my boys will never have the accuracy of a sniper when it comes to peeing in the toilet, my daughter will always roll her eyes at me in disgust and someone is always hungry or tired or stinky or in need of my immediate attention. God, grant me the courage to change the things I can, like sheets and light bulbs and dirty underwear and the TV channel when my daughter tries to watch those hideous MTV reality shows. And, God, grant me the wisdom to know when it’s time to just get out the can of Whoop Ass or when I should just retreat to the serenity of the pantry where it is dark and quiet and there’s enough sugar and non-perishables to sustain me until my kids are off to college.

My name is Crystal and I’m an Ogre.  I’m in dire need of a 12-step program. Only, there isn’t such a thing when you’re an Ogre. It’s not for lack of trying, mind you. I’ve tried picking up those parenting articles (Stop Yelling at your Kids! 7 Strategies to Stay Calm!) to no avail.  Instead, often, I feel isolated and alone in my Ogreness (even though I can pretty much guarantee all mothers have at least a morsel of Ogre in them that they are just hiding for fear they are the only one.) But let’s call a spade a spade. Face it, we’re all somewhere along the Ogre spectrum whether we want to admit it or not.

Here’s how I became on Ogre.

First, I got married. Then, I had kids.

Seriously, I wasn’t always an Ogre. I mean I had my moments – like when a zit popped up on my chin the day of an important date, or the time I parked illegally on campus because I was late for my Calculus test and came out to find one of those boots on my tire, or when my roommate refused to clean up her dirty dishes (okay, that was me) or when I didn’t have enough beer money to join the girls for penny beer nights (yep, not even a penny.)

To be fair, however, my Ogreness actually comes from genetics as much as marriage and kids. I mean, I’m from a family of loud mouthed women. There… I’ve said it (my husband will be happy at this seemingly little admission.) We just talk loud. And my sister and I can yell with the best of them.

But our mom, well she wasn’t a yeller. Not at us kids anyway. She could work her magic on us with a glare. The glare. All she had to do was give us “the glare” and my sisters and I stopped whatever horsing around we were doing. If I smarted off, I got the glare (okay and an occasional smack on the mouth if I was super sassy), but usually all it took was one glare from my mom.

Even when I started dating boys, all it took was a look from my mom to know what I needed to do (and in the case of boys, not do.)  Case in point: my freshman year I started dating a senior. He showed up at the door and my mom answered. As soon as she saw him – long blond hair, acid washed tight jeans, cocksure with a megawatt smile – she slammed the door in his face and gave me the look. As in Hell No. And I threw my arms up indigently and said “But why?” and she raised her brows (a signature precursor to the glare) and said, “Because I said so. Because… because he has a venereal disease.”

And now, as an adult (well, as a somewhat adult … I mean, I still bow to the mercy of the glare from my mother even at 36 years old so how can I really be an adult?) … but lately, I find myself wondering why hadn’t I inherited this super power of hers? I give my kids the look – more like the stink eye really - and they say, “Mom, what’s wrong with your eyeballs?”

One particular moment when my Ogerness reared its ugly head always sticks in my head. I was in a hurry to get to an important meeting and my daughter was supposed to be cleaning up her mess and getting her shoes on so we could leave. Now, I already know what you are thinking. It was my fault for being in a hurry and waiting until the last minute to get things moving. I know this. But remember, I am an Ogre.

Instead of putting away her toys and putting on her shoes (pink fuzzy boots as they were), she had scattered Polly Pockets out all over her bedroom floor and had filled up the Polly Pocket summer fun pool with water from the bathroom sink, leaving a wet trail all along the carpet into her room. I rushed down the hall buttoning my blouse to check and make sure she was getting ready to go and my only pair of trouser socks stepped in the wet river of carpet leading to her pink haven.

And I’ll be darned if that didn’t set off the Ogre. I needed to be at a meeting in less than 30 minutes. I need her to clean the room and get ready to go, so I could drop her with the sitter and drive through bumper to bumper traffic to be at this meeting. And now I needed to change my socks too.

So, I started tossing Polly Pockets everywhere and yelling at her to clean up and get ready and cursing her for not doing what I asked. And I’m losing my temper and my voice is getting louder because my frustration is building and I’m not mad at her, I’m mad at me because my make-up wouldn’t go on right thanks to my aging skin and my clothes didn’t fit right thanks to the extra baby weight and I can’t believe the office had the gall to call me into this meeting at the last minute on the day I work from home.

And so I’m yelling and slamming Polly Pocket into the plastic storage bin and then I look down and my daughter is looking up at me and tears are welling up in her eyes. Suddenly, I see Donkey in my head, in the first Shrek movie, when he’s lecturing Shrek and mocking him for being so ugly and heartless. So right then and there I stomp my feet and raise my arms up in the air like Donkey in the movie mimicking Shrek and I scream “I’m an Ogre!”

And it’s silent for a moment, but then through tears my daughter and I both begin to laugh.

And I kneel down and take her in my arms, and I get a good whiff of her sweet smell and memorize the feel of her tiny shoulder blades against my arms, and I apologize for losing my temper and for being an Ogre. I tell her it’s nothing she did, it has nothing to do with her or Polly Pocket or the trail of water all over the carpet. I tell her it’s me and I’m sorry. Mommy is sorry for being an Ogre, I whisper in her ear.

And since that moment, I’ve come to learn that there is almost certainly nothing I can do about raising my voice or getting frustrated and losing my temper sometimes. It happens. I’m from a loud mouthed family.  It’s how I cope with frustration. It’s what I’ve seen and known my whole life. And sometimes, damn it, it just feels good. 

And it’s not right, I know, so I’ve learned to recognize certain Ogre triggers (just like with my migraines) and I try to avoid them now. Triggers like dirty socks left on the floor, errant piss on the toilet, stuff shoved under my kids’ beds, the ever-present, ever-expanding amount of laundry that exists in my house, the toothpaste spray all over the bathroom mirror that somehow manages to make it to the ceiling, wadded up gum wrappers, french fries and trash in my car. Things that can easily add up quickly and rev up the Ogre inside me. Things that can easily be fixed. Unlike so many real things in this world that actually are important and matter.

And when that doesn’t work, when I can’t avoid triggers or recognize the transformation to Ogre happening and I’m having an Ogre fit, either me or my kids will pull out the “I’m an Ogre!” bit and that will end it. And then we’ll all join in, arms in the air, feet stomping, yelling, “I’m an Ogre!” And we’ll hug and laugh, say sorry and move on.

And it helps ease my guilt for being an Ogre. It helps to know that I’m accepted as I am, faults and all, that my kids love me even when I’m an Ogre. And in all this, I’ve realized there’s a lesson somehow I’ve taught them. That when you are acting in a way you don’t like or recognize, all you have to do is stop and admit you’re being an Ogre and say you’re sorry. Because, truth be told, we all make an Ogre out of ourselves at one point or another. 

Like me, when my mom was completely right about that venereal disease comment. Damn her and her super powers!