Actually, why recap when I can give it to you in five words and a hyphen:
First Full-On Temper Tantrum
I won't go into the gory details, but really? It took me an hour--an entire hour-- to cut up an onion to go into the rice dish I'm making for the aforementioned potluck. This has nothing to do with my prowess in the kitchen, by the way. And if you know me, you know how much I love to go to group gatherings. It has nothing to do with the other parents, by the way, who are all pretty great. It's just that I'm feeling Hermit-Crab-in-my-Shell-ish Hellish at those sorts of things to begin with. I was born sort of missing that small-talk gene that many other people have. So I have to pretend at small talk, (and actively avoid bringing up Dr. Who--- by the way, David Tennant--where did you come from?!) which makes me look like I suck anyway.
And I don't mind sucking in front of people who will get to know me over a year and understand my weird, surface-y conversation is just a Big Social Group anomaly, but to have to prepare for this event amidst screams of anger about:
- the ramp for his cars "not working how I like"
- the damn water bottle, which I opened three times, only to have him twist it shut and get upset
- our relatively benign fourteen year old cat, who is "scary" and "going to hit me"
As I jokingly mentioned to a friend over the phone, Kiddo "shouldn't be worried about the C-A-T, he should be worried about the M-O-M."
I did put him in his room, by the way. As I've said before, positive discipline is about just that, discipline. I'm not stupid, and I did have to get this rice dish cooked.
Now he's strumming his "guitar"-- a plastic piece of Pex pipe (filled with small beach pebbles like a shaker) and looped with a plastic slinky (assumably his "plug-in cord") and watching Neil Finn. This is what we save the tv for some days--when Mama's tank of compassion, empathy and patience are hitting the red zone that warns "Empty". I think the shrieking and frustration and sabotage-the-water-bottle tactics took it out of me. And I'm not the kind of lady who's done in by a glass of wine, or even by a tantruming three year old. But you know what? That glass of gevurtztramainer sure tasted good.