Therapy

Yesterday was not a good day. The morning started badly when Nan woke before 7am, and shouted until I set her free. I took the fastest shower ever as she ate her breakfast, and settled down to do some work while she played. After a couple of hours, she was desperate to leave the house, so I decided we'd head to the playground to eat our lunch and play for a bit before naptime. Because I'm a nice freakin' mom. I was a little irritated by her lack of interest in lunch, but shrugged it off, figuring if she were truly hungry, she'd eat. As naptime approached, I went to gather my child so we could head home. She was less than compliant. And by "less than compliant" I mean "a total demon-spawn who screamed NO at me from the very top of the very, very high playstructure." This is where things get tricky-- unlike most moms, I cannot just scramble up there, grab her wayward butt and drag her to my car. I had to stand ineffectually at the bottom of the steps, my voice getting louder and my threats more ridiculous as the minutes ticked away. Eventually, I started (carefully) climbing the steps up to the slide, hearing my orthopedic surgeon's scolding voice in the back of my head-- at this point, Nan's eyes grew wide as she assessed just how dire the situation was going to be when I eventually got to her. I told her in a low, mean-mommy voice, "The higher I get, the angrier I get. If I were you, I'd come down to me RIGHT NOW." Finally, finally, she started her descent. Thank god. I knew I couldn't climb any higher than I already had; fortunately, she didn't know that. When I could reach her, I grabbed her arm and guided her down to a level where I could pick her up, and I carried her to the picnic shelter, where I staged an impromptu time-out. I'm not sure who it was for-- me or her. I was frustrated by her attitude, and embarassed that I couldn't control my two-and-a-half year old in front of the other parents at the playground. We got to the car at last, and she told me she was ready to go home and take a nap. I told her I was ready for her to go home and take a nap, too. I spent the afternoon in peace, working, and Jay finally called around the time he usually arrives home to let me know he'd be late. Sigh. Nan woke from her nap, and she was even fouler than she'd been in the morning. At this point, I was less than sympathetic. I did allow her to lay on my lap and watch TV while I worked, until Jay arrived home. He promptly sat in the recliner and took a nap. Bastard. I went to the kitchen to start dinner, and heard Natalie asking the now-comatose Daddy to play with her. I listened to her pleas for awhile, and then I came to intervene, prompting a grumbled diatribe against me from my husband. Near tears, and pressed for time to get dinner prepared before pre-school orientation, I started to make mashed potatoes. Traditionally, I use my electric mixer to mash potatoes, but I decided to break out my relatively new masher. It was awesome. I wished I had a couple more pounds of boiled potatoes to pound. I took out all of my frustration-- with Nan, with Jay, with my own stupid body-- on little soft red potatoes. I mashed, and I mashed, and I added milk and butter, and I mashed a little more for good measure. I felt better than I had felt all day. It's my new favorite form of therapy. I'm looking at our schedule for the next few weeks, and seeing how busy we'll be and how much Jay will be gone-- I think we're going to be eating a lot of mashed potatoes.