why my current good life reminds me of the past

I don't feel right about [Husband] being so nice to me. I've posted about this before. I don't feel like I deserve it. I feel like I should be hit, I should be berated, I should be restricted. I think I used to feel like this because it was how my mother lived, and I felt bad for her. Now it's not for that reason - it's because I feel like damaged goods that should be treated as such. Although more than anything in the world I want my children to be happy, healthy, and safe, when I get depressed, seeing them being normal kids just brings back memories of how my father treated us. (Before anyone jumps to any conclusions, I want to say that I have never, would never, and could never abuse or mistreat my kids.) It's just that everything brings back bad memories. 

 For instance, the two older ones made a horrible mess this morning throwing puzzle pieces, legos, blocks, and all kinds of other toys all over. It's OK with me - they're kids, and those are their toys and they should play with them and have fun. My only rule is that they need to clean them up afterwards (which of course, they didn't - I'll make them do it this evening after [Older Daughter] is back from school). My father would have blown up even to see the initial mess. If he'd stepped on a Lego and hurt his foot like I did this morning, there's no telling what he would have done. Last year when my mother was visiting (and I was pregnant and didn't tell her - it's easy to hide when you always look 3 or 4 months pregnant even when you're not), the kids had their nylon tent out and were jumping around in it and screaming happily. Not only were their screams making noise, but the sound of that cheap synthetic material rustling around was adding to it. I was depressed at the time (and hiding it from my mother) and thought about how furious my father would have been if my sister and I had done that. (Of course, we probably would not have, for fear of getting yelled at, hit, and getting my mother yelled at and possibly hit.) Right then, my mother said "Can you imagine doing this in front of Daddy?!" I almost cried right then. I told my psychologist about it and said that it was sad, and she agreed. 

 This morning, [Husband] asked if I could take his shirts to the dry cleaner so that he could get them back by Wednesday. I told him that I might not have been able to get them there on time. He said "Oh, that's OK, I was going to take them in myself anyway." My father would have just ordered my mother or me to do it, and if it didn't get done, would have exploded. The least of it would have been yelling and throwing things. I would never make my father wait a second for anything, or contradict him, or question him or correct him - all normal things I can do with my husband. It would have resulted in an explosive verbal tirade followed by a few weeks of the silent treatment (which in some ways was a blessing) at best.

 This morning, [Older Daughter] accidentally kicked a doorstop and it made that loud, annoying, drawn out noise. [Younger Daughtwr] was sleeping in the next room and I was afraid it would wake her up, and since I had my hands full, it would have been at a very bad time. I got annoyed and rolled my eyes, but didn't even say anything to her. I can't imagine what my father would have done, even without the added risk of waking a sleeping baby. And if we had woken him up from a sleep - who knows. I'm not saying that my kids are lucky or privileged because they get to make noise, or cry, or throw fits, or make messes, or spill water, or forget to put things away, or leave toys out, or not brush their teeth on time, or ask for another glass of water, or say that they don't like their food, or do any other normal kid stuff without getting their asses kicked or getting yelled at. It's just the way it should be. There's no reason to explode at them for that. But when I get depressed, I just obsess on the past, and my father's behavior, and I just think about what he would have done, and how we modified our behavior because of it, and lived in fear of him, and I can't help but feel like a freak for it. When [Son] wakes up, I'm going to ask him to put away his Legos. He'll refuse, no doubt, and shake his head - something I would never dare have done. I'll tell him again, more firmly. He'll continue to refuse, and my frustration level will escalate, with it culminating in a threat for a timeout and never letting him play with Legos again, but that's as far as it will go. I don't think that's too harsh.