Why I Still Rant About My Mum (And What It Teaches Me About Parenting My Own Kid)
The blueberry pancake batter hit the linoleum right as my mum leaned against the counter sipping her coffee. “Oh, Lila,” she said, shaking her head. “Why can’t you ever get her to slow down? She’s always making a mess everywhere we go.” I was already grabbing a paper towel, but my jaw tightened so fast I almost cracked a molar. By the time I’d wiped half the batter up, I was already planning my rant. Not to her face, not yet – after she left, I paced the living room, replaying the line to my partner, adding every other small slight from the visit: the comment about my kid’s screen time, the way she rearranged my linen closet while I ran to the store, the offhand remark that I “work too much” to “really be present.”
My partner just folded laundry and nodded, like he’s done a hundred times before. He knows the drill. For 10 years, every time my mum leaves our house after a visit, I devolve into a messy, detailed rant about every tiny offhand comment, every unasked correction, every little dig that she probably doesn’t even remember making five minutes after she says it. I used to feel terrible about it. All the parenting content I see says you should heal your inner child, forgive your parents for their mistakes, set gentle boundaries and move on. I should be better than this, right? Just let it go. But over the last couple of years, I’ve stopped feeling guilty for my post-visit rants. And I’ve started telling other parents who rant about their own parents that it’s not just useless venting – it’s one of the most useful tools I’ve found for catching the bad habits I don’t want to pass down to my kid.
A few months back, we had a family barbecue at my house. My mum was there, my aunt was there, my 7-year-old daughter was running around telling everyone about the time we camped and a raccoon stole three of our granola bars. She said it was as big as a dog. I was just about to open my mouth to say “It wasn’t that big, bug” when I stopped. Two days before that barbecue, I’d ranted to my partner for 20 minutes about how my mum does that exact same thing to me. Last Christmas, I told the story about getting stuck in the rain on the way to my cousin’s wedding, and she cut me off mid-sentence to tell everyone “It was just a drizzle, she always makes everything sound more dramatic than it is.” I’d replayed that line over and over after she left, mad that she still makes me feel like my stories don’t matter even when I’m 38 years old. And there I was, about to do the exact same thing to my kid.
That’s when I started my little post-rant routine. It’s nothing fancy, just two small steps. First, after I finish ranting to my partner, I pull out my phone and type one sentence into my notes app: the specific thing my mum did that set me off. I don’t write a whole essay, just “Cut me off mid-story in front of people” or “Commented on Lila’s mess before helping clean” or “Criticized my portion size at dinner.” Then I ask myself one question: Have I done this exact thing to Lila in the last 30 days? Nine times out of ten, the answer is yes.
After the pancake incident, I wrote “Pointed out mistake before helping fix problem.” I thought for 30 seconds, and remembered Tuesday of that week. Lila spilled her apple juice all over the table after school, and I sighed and said “Can you ever be careful?” before I handed her a paper towel. She just shrunk into her chair, and I didn’t even think about it until I wrote that note. So what did I do? I cut a little sticky note and wrote “Fix first, talk later” and stuck it on the front of my fridge, right by the juice jug. It’s not a big life change. It’s just a little reminder. When something spills or breaks now, I reach for the towel first, then talk about it later. I still forget sometimes, but I remember way more often than I used to.
After the story correction incident, I added another small rule for myself: count to three slow after my kid finishes talking before I say anything. That gives me time to bite my tongue if I’m about to correct a tiny, unimportant detail. Most of the time, no one cares if the raccoon was actually big or small. What matters is she gets to tell her story.
This doesn’t mean I don’t set boundaries with my mum, either. After the pancake rant, I texted her a couple days later, no big fight, just said “I know you’re just trying to help when you comment on how I do things with Lila, but it makes me feel like you don’t trust me. Can you only give advice if I ask for it?” She texted back right away and said she had no idea, she was sorry, she’d do better. She slipped up last month when she said Lila should eat more vegetables at dinner, but she caught herself halfway through and said “Sorry, bug, that’s none of my business.” It was small, but it meant a lot.
I know my mum had a hard childhood, and she parented me the best way she knew how, just like I’m parenting Lila the best way I know how. There’s no big dramatic reconciliation, no perfect healed wound, no neat ending to this. I still rant. Last week, she showed up 45 minutes early for Lila’s birthday party and rearranged my snack table before I could even get my coat on, and I ranted for 15 minutes after everyone left. But now it doesn’t feel like I’m just wasting time being mad. It feels like I’m clearing out space for the good habits I want to keep. Ranting lets me name the things that hurt me when I was small, so I can avoid doing them to the small person in my house now.
The sticky note is still on my fridge. It’s a little faded from splashes of spaghetti sauce, but it’s still there. I still slip up. I still forget. I still rant. That’s just how this works, I think. There’s no perfect version of this, just a lot of small adjustments, and a lot of venting, and trying to do better next time.
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