As our girls are getting older, their anger is getting more personal.

Back when they were toddlers, they’d howl and scream and throw themselves on the ground when they were upset about something — like all toddlers. But their howls and screams weren’t personal: they were cries of fury directed at the universe, existential angst. WHY can’t I have what I want RIGHT NOW?!? Even when I was the cause of that angst, I wasn’t the target of their anger. Their tantrums launched them into another realm, and even their garbled yells rarely, if ever, included my name.

That’s all changed in the past six months. Now, when I say “no,” or look askance, or fail to use the nicest possible tone, my oldest daughters are quick to make it personal: “You’re being mean. We’re getting a new mommy!”

(Note on the idea of “getting a new mommy,” which seems particularly cruel: this idea did not originate with my girls. Maybe, just maybe, it’s something that I suggested once in an effort to lighten up a heated exchange….but the girls latched on to the concept).

I suppose another way of saying this is that, as my girls grow up, they’re learning how to hit where it hurts. I’m so proud.

Not for the faint of heart, this parenting gig. It’s incredible how quickly children turn from innocent, adorable, dependent infants, into such willful, flawed little people. NOBODY warned me that adolescence begins during preschool, but it does. Oh yes, it does, complete with the pouting, eye rolling, and shouting “FINE!” while stomping upstairs.

For a while, I responded to the “You’re being mean!” complaint by trying to reason with the girls. “I’m not being mean,” I’d say calmly. (The calm is important; I’ve learned that if my anger rises to meet theirs, things will only escalate and I’ll feel terrible afterwards. This way I can say, “Well, at least I remained calm.”) Then I’d point to the evidence; almost every single time I was accused of being mean, I was, in fact, engaged in activities that would suggest just the opposite. Like driving the girls to get ice cream. Preparing dinner for the entire family. Getting everybody dressed to go out.

But of course there’s no convincing a preschooler that you’re not being mean. We’re not talking about logical people here. It doesn’t matter that I’m doing non-mean things for the greater good; if they’re not getting what they want, when they want it, I’m mean. I could be discovering the cure for cancer with one hand, but if the other hand isn’t putting exactly the right ponytail into my daughter’s hair, I’m “not nice.”

Finally, one day when daughter #1 pulled out the “You’re being mean” card, I responded, “You know what? That’s okay. It’s not my job to be nice.”

That surprised us both for a minute. After all, I’ve spent my whole life trying to be nice; my attempts to be nice, to make everybody like me, have defined my character for most of my life — and have been at the root of some of my very worst choices.

But after I said it, I realized that I was right: being nice is NOT part of my job as a mother.

It’s my job to LOVE my children. But “love” and “nice” are not synonyms.

Here’s what I think love looks like: keeping my children alive (to the extent that I can control), nurturing their bodies and minds and spirits, encouraging them to become the best versions of themselves, and giving them the tools to grow into independent adults. Nothing in there about “nice.” On the contrary, the items on that list will probably require a whole lot of behavior that, at the time, looks “mean” to my kids.

What a concept. This is something that does NOT come naturally to me. But I’ve kept repeating, “It’s not my job to be nice,” as a reminder to myself and to my girls of what love really looks like.

One more thing: The other night, as I was putting them to bed after a day filled with “mean” accusations from my girls, Fiona asked what I planned to do for the rest of the evening.

“Oh,” I said, “I think I’m going to read this great new book I just got. It’s called 101 Ways to be Mean to Your Kids.”

“MOMMY,” she said, and in the dark I could hear her eyes rolling.

But I think she got it. It’s not my job to be nice, but it is my job to help us all keep a sense of humor about life. I see it as a favor to that new Mommy they’ve ordered, whenever she arrives.

Fiona and Campbell started preschool at the end of August. For Fiona, this was a return to the same preschool, same classroom, and same teacher as last year. Her fellow students, however, were almost entirely new to her. (Because of Fiona’s November birthday, she was placed in the four-year-old class last year; because the cut-off date for kindergarten is September 1, Fiona and a few other classmates will spend another year in the four-year-old class, while most of their peers from last year move on to kindergarten).  For Campbell, starting out in the three-year-old class next door to Fiona, the whole experience was new.

Both of them were hugely excited for the first day of school — but not as excited as I was!

There’s a lot of build-up before the first day of school each year: anticipation, nervousness, new clothes and shoes and supplies. Even I felt a little nervous, although my main priority was just getting the kids out of the house. I hoped and prayed that Fiona would make friends and be happy with her new peer group. I hoped and prayed that Campbell would respect her teachers and be kind to the other students and avoid inappropriately using the word “poo-poo” — at least for the first day.

But, having done the first-day-of-school thing last year, I also knew this: It’s not the first day of school that’s the issue; it’s the SECOND day.

See, the first day, everything is fresh and exciting. There may be jitters, there may be wrenching goodbyes — but in my experience, adrenaline mostly carries everyone through. I’ve been the mom patting myself on the back after the first day of school, proudly relieved that my child had NO PROBLEM saying goodbye.

And then the second day hit.

By the second day, the kids have wised up. It’s not fresh and exciting anymore; instead, they can see past the new clothes and school supplies to the rules, expectations, and social minefield that they’re going to have to navigate EVERY SINGLE DAY. You mean I have to KEEP GOING?!? their eyes seem to say.

I was thinking about this as school began, and I realized that much of what makes life hard has to do with The Second Day. It’s not always literally the second 24-hour day, but it’s the state of mind we face when the newness has worn off. Think about it: You get married, and at first you’re swept along through the wedding and honeymoon, but pretty soon comes that Second Day, when you stare at your partner across the table and think, You mean I have to KEEP GOING?!?

Or, say, you have a baby, and you’re all jazzed up because you survived labor and now you have this cute little munchkin and you’re getting all sorts of attention and your house is stuffed with nifty new baby supplies…but then you come home from the hospital and have to face the Second Day, when nobody cares anymore that you have a new baby (except your parents — they’ll always care), and all your clothes are covered with bodily fluids and that munchkin is STILL waking up every two hours and you think, You mean I have to KEEP GOING?!?

OR maybe you do something really great in your profession/vocation/calling/art: you win an award, or obtain a degree, or invent something new, or create a painting/performance/book/film/play/blog post that people really like. Congratulations! You feel like your existence is finally validated…for about 24 hours. Because then comes that Second Day, when you have to sit at your desk or computer or easel again, and you think, You mean I have to KEEP GOING?!?

OR EVEN, let’s say you move to a small town in Vermont, and everything is new and wonderful. You love your new house, your new friends, the new landscape — your entire new lifestyle. But then the second year rolls around, and suddenly nothing’s quite so new anymore. You’ve seen all these seasons before, done just about everything there is to do at least once. And one dark and freezing winter morning, when you’re heading outside to feed those damn chickens AGAIN, you think, You mean I have to KEEP GOING?!?

Hey, it could definitely happen.

That Second Day is no joke. Based on the examples above, I’d venture that it’s the root cause of many cases of divorce, postpartum depression, and personal and professional burnout. I myself have experienced it plenty. In fact, I abandoned my first profession — teaching — because after four years I just couldn’t face a lifetime of Second Days in the classroom.

I have no tips for avoiding the Second Day phenomenon. It’s an inescapable part of life. Nothing stays new forever; if every day were a FIRST day, life would eventually become hyperactive and exhausting. All I have is this insight: the Second Day is difficult and depressing, but if you persevere through it, that’s when things start to take root and get really interesting. Marriage and parenting will always be HARD WORK — filled with multiple Second Days — but when I think back to my husband on our wedding day, or my kids when they were first born, I realize that I love them now with much more richness and complexity. I wouldn’t go back to that first day for anything.

I suppose the best way to handle Second Days is to anticipate them. I know now that I need to be just as prepared — if not more — to help my kids navigate that second day of school. I need to linger with a few extra hugs and kisses at the door, maybe even slip a little love note or special chocolate treat into their lunch bags. I need to offer encouragement that the most worthwhile thing in life — deep and genuine LOVE: for others, for what you do, for where you live — requires pushing past that Second Day. Perhaps we should all treat ourselves accordingly when we face life’s Second Days. Especially the extra chocolate treat.

So, now I’ve thought this through, and I feel more equipped to tackle those Second Days. But you know what?

I still have to get up tomorrow morning and feed those damn chickens.