Wired for Frustration

It’s funny how people are wired differently.

 

My cousin-in-law, for instance. She is getting her degree and required to take a history class. Those assignments make her want to scream – but I LOVE history and the interconnectedness of humanity.

 

A good friend… not only is she an amazing ballerina, she loves numbers and is dedicating her career to teaching math. I’m fulfilled balancing my checkbook every month, but knowing she exists gives me a sense of peace that the world will be orderly and sane.

 

And everyone getting nursing degrees or pursuing their passion for phlebotomy? I’m so very, very glad you exist! If it were up to me I’d throw myself down to the ground, moan and blubber rather than stick myself or anyone else with a needle.

 

(For goodness’ sake, I practically pass out when my child wiggles her loose tooth!)

 

I’m trying really hard to think of the positives now because I’ve spent the evening going through payment records for our business. People stop paying rent from time-to-time and apparently the legal system would like us to be accurate in the tenant charges (and rents owed) before we sell their belongings at public auction.

 

I know, it’s a nervy stance. That government and those Constitutional rights and such… they are WAY over-rated!

 

We do all the paperwork by hand. Someday I’m looking forward to using a computer program with pre-calculated equations to help with this, but for the time being this is an adventure in trying to decipher handwriting, numbers, rent due and late fees accumulated.

 

When it all comes out right it’s a beautiful feeling! But when it doesn’t match with my double-checker… oh! It’s so, so, so, so, so, so frustrating!!!!!

 

I was really hoping for a quiet evening without frustration because I’m of the opinion I hit my frustration quota for the day at about 4 p.m.

 

It started simply enough. Dos asked for a blueberry bagel because, “They are so, so yummy!” I was happy to give it to her with cream cheese because she’s our non-milk-drinking child and I sneak dairy into her diet anytime I can!

 

Tres decided she wanted a bagel, too. So she stole the bagel from Dos. Dos emitted a super-sonic squeal of protest and grabbed the bagel back. Tres actually made my eardrums ring as she grabbed the disputed bagel from her sister.

 

I arrived on the scene and snagged the bagel, returning it to Dos. Tres considered this the greatest injustice of her life and screamed at the top of her lungs in the tone only a mother listening to her child throw a temper tantrum can appreciate.

 

The part of her anatomy wailing at 160 decibels and told her she needed to apologize to Dos for stealing the bagel.

 

Very clearly, my not-quite-two-year-old said, “No!”

 

Yep, it was the gauntlet. Thrown down for mama to take up.

 

These are the moments 100+ lbs. and 30+ years of maturity make no difference to the militant offspring. That child was bound and determined she would not apologize.

 

I’d like to say my superior mothering skills took over and I was able to spread peace, joy, and understanding throughout the household. Except that would be a lie.

 

The quick story of the next hour and twenty minutes? Tres spent about 55 minutes of it in her crib with me checking on her every time she stopped screaming bloody murder.

 

She displayed her climbing prowess by crawling from the crib to the abutting changing table to sit in the window sill and tell the birds of her sadness. I moved the crib to the center of the room and put her back.

 

Tres then decided her best option would be to lunge over the crib rails to the floor. I heard the thud, picked her up, dusted her off, and put her back in the crib.

 

Each time I asked if she was ready to apologize and she defiantly refused. After the crib escapes I came in to check and found she’d taken her wet diaper off. She saw me and threw the dirty diaper at me. It was 100% intentional, I could see it in her angry eyes.

 

Yes. The not-quite-two-year-old threw her dirty diaper at my face in outrage. She still refused to apologize.

 

This little scenario went on for one hour and twenty minutes. That is one hour and eight minutes of pissy braying from the bedroom because the kid wouldn’t say, “I’m sorry.”

 

Frustration doesn’t even begin to cut it, for either one of us.

 

Finally the nut-case calmed down. I went into the bedroom to find she no longer looked possessed, her heart rate was normal, breathing deep and calm.

 

“Are you ready to apologize?” I asked her. She looked at me like I was completely over-reacting and said, “Uh, huh.”

 

I brought Dos in the room and she said, “I’s torry.” They hugged, we all made up.

 

Now, at the end of the day, I just want the frustration to go away. So… could anyone come and figure our records out? Please?

 

And the big picture perspective… I’m so grateful for people who are talented differently than me. Because I can call on you for help. And you literally keep me alive.

 

Now, is there anyone around who would like my strong-willed child?!