In Which I Can Do No Right

Time: 12:55 pm. Since we last parted company, Gentle Reader, I have gotten my living room, dining area and hallway dusted, mopped, vacuumed and, in an unseen move: re-arranged all three areas (not the rooms, mind you...just the stuff in them). Indeed, I'm almost finished dusting my entire first floor and being at a stopping point (dishes, not withstanding). I'm working on mac and cheese for lunch and I'm trying to keep it together because...well...I'm discovering that I'm not the only female in our house for whom change is hard.

Miss A has announced that she H.A.T.E.S. the new arrangement of all furniture with a passion that is so white hot that she can almost melt rock into molten lava. Well, okay...maybe those aren't her exact words. But do you see the hyperbole? She is very upset about the rearrangement of all this furniture, especially in the dining nook because her view of the television has been obscured and "her chair" are not in the normal place.

How upset is she? Well, in all seriousness and honesty, she was coloring while I was making the mac and cheese and simultaneously throws down her crayon and announces, in tones of pure frustration and weepiness, "I feel like a FAILURE!"

"What?" (keep in mind that I am currently thinking, WHAT?????????? YOU ARE FIVE! HOW CAN YOU BE A FAILURE YET????? WHERE DID YOU HEAR THIS FROM??????? Gentle Reader, she might as well be swearing, for crying out loud.)

"I feel like a failure!" she is practically choking back sobs. "I don't like this! Will it have to be like this forever? I don't feel like coloring."

"Okay, so don't color," I respond. "And, honey, when do we ever keep things in the living room in their place 'forever'?"

Immediately, the proverbial light bulb goes off. I see her remember the fact that I kind of rearranged the living room about 3 weeks ago, just not as drastically and didn't touch any of the other rooms/areas. For the moment, she is appeased, but later, when asked to say the lunch prayer is requested to pray for a softened heart to accept this change, which she does. After ending the prayer, she says, "I don't like sitting here! I want you to put the table back the way it was!"

Moving on.

So, Miss E comes home from preschool and is nonplussed by the change, but accepting. Until she discovers that I've thrown her leftover breakfast of Malt-O-Meal's Marshmallow Mateys away (she is a dry cereal eater, and so one just puts her cereal into a bowl, gives her a cup of milk, and she eats the cereal/picks out all the "marshmallows" and takes a swig of beverage to suit her needs). She is currently fighting over a breakfast bowl of remnant M.M.'s with Miss O. Envision the ensuing tug-of-war replete with all the shrieking of a 3 year old and her 21 month old sister. And in that moment, I am done.

True confessions, Gentle Reader? I do not act, but react and I fib. Yes, I fib to my 3 year old because I want her to stop fighting with Miss O, who also has a claim to the bowl. In all brightness of honesty, I didn't throw away Miss E's M.M.'s (as told to her) but in fact, gave the remainder of them to Miss O for breakfast. This is how slow I was moving this morning. O! The Shame, the Shame of it all.

Miss E bursts into tears which, even if faced with the startling truth, she would have done anyway. Feeling a wee bit guilty, I tell her that she can have some for snack if she still wants them after lunch. The crying continues for a few minutes and Miss E throws herself on the floor and curls into the fetal position (for crying out loud!). Meanwhile, Miss A's bemoaning of the changes to the dining area/chair situation continues. My personal frustration level is on the rise...can you see it? I bet you can!

I tell Miss E that she better pull it together and stop crying unless she wants me to give her something to cry about. Ohhhhh yeah, Gentle Reader. Yeppers. There goes the "Mother of the Week" award, yet again.

And what of Miss O, you ask? Well, she's been the big trooper in all of this, I must say, though not without her moments. Beyond the tug of war/shrieking moment mentioned above, for some reason she thought I was attacking her with the vacuum and every time I got near her would start yelling at me, "No, Mamma! No!" while trying to work her way backwards, away from me and the approaching Dyson. In a sick way, it was kind of funny.

I can see that I will have to continue this little Record of History as my children are finished with lunch and nap time will have to be attended to. After cleaning Miss O (thank heavens for BIBS!) and the surrounding floor, I am wiping up Miss E and she says to me, "I want my marshmallow cereal. Now."

Could be a long afternoon.