Getting comfortable with discomfort

Fingers on BlackboardIt’s a funny thing about life: it’s teaching me things all the time if I just stop and listen. Back when my sons were about 8 and 10 years old, they used to want to wrestle with each other. I remember one afternoon when I was cooking dinner, and I started to hear some rough-housing escalation in the living room: voices raising, energy level rising. I heard some pushing and tangling going on out there. I stalked out into the living room, shouting, “Stop it! Stop it, now!”

They were on the floor, wrapped up around each other and they looked up at me — and the look on their faces wasn’t the extreme-battle-thirst-for-blood-anger look I was expecting, but perplexion: “huh, Mom…?”
Oh, crap.
It was me that was uncomfortable with what they were doing; they were fine.
Oh, crap: this was MY problem, not theirs. As a parent in a recent class asked, “Who’s crap is this?” This was definitely MY crap, my problem, my getting triggered, and so I decided right then and there to get comfortable with discomfort, since it was holding me back.
More on this topic soon. Any thoughts?
Oh, and yeah, “Wrestling happens outside.”