Sometimes it just feels good to throw things. Not big things or dangerous things or breakable things, mind you, but things. Right?
On those days when I've had too little sleep the night before and there's too much expected of me from all three kids at the same time, I think it would feel good. When my quota for hearing "mama" was hit an hour ago, I think it would feel good. When every request I make or direction I give is met with rolling eyes, moans, and complaints, I think it would feel good. When dinner is "gross" and nobody will even try it, I think it would feel good.
In fact, I know it would feel good. I know it does feel good. How? Because I've done it. I've thrown a toy car because I stepped on it one too many times. I've thrown a doll that hasn't gotten picked up no matter how many times I've reminded. And it does feel good. It is satisfying to hear the stunned silence of the kids and the dull thud of the toy. But it doesn't make me feel better.
I've thrown tantrums to match theirs. I can't cry on demand, but I can stomp, slam doors, whine, and glare with the best of them. Sometimes mocking them makes me feel better, but it isn't all that satisfying.
So, in the end, when I feel ready to explode, what helps me feel both satisfied and better? Throwing things. That's right. That and pushing things, kicking things, running and yelling. We go outside. We swing, play catch, go for a walk, play tag. Whether it's the distraction from the stresses or the internal reactions of moving around (most likely the combination) I feel better and it's satisfying. Sometimes it just feels good to play.