I am Jack's raging bile duct...

On Saturday morning I sent a text message to a couple of my nearest and dearest. It was a thank you message with the sentiments one sends to those that are always on the end of the phone when one needs to vent, which, lately, has been very often. I thanked them for being there and stated, as publicly and with as much intent as I could muster, that I was no longer interested in complaining about my misfortunes. That I was going to be cool, honey bunny. That I was done with Nancy Negative Pants.


As I only live with a nearing 4 year old, I have little venting opportunities at home, and although I tend not to whine about the little things - "that effing guy cut me off", "I can't believe what they did to her/me/you/him" or "and then she said... And I was like... And then, can you believe it, she was like..."


I'd gotten past holding onto that useless little stuff a while ago, maybe when I found my inner Zen garden in Malaysia in July.


However, the big dramatic stuff - the occupation stress, the occupation pressure, the family politics, the daughter-ing, the parenting guilt, the financial worries, the guilt about asking for babysitters too often with the impending festivities and the impending festivities has been cause for me to feel like a total whiney pants.


And today was my breaking point. I called my cousin and balled like a baby sitting in my car at the car park at work. I blurted it all out and am sure, now, that none of it made any sense.


I've had tears more often in the past week than I care to admit, or that is usual. I have spent more time on facebook than I proclaim to be healthy, I google irrelevant stuff, I look up parenting websites that only augment the parent guilt that is one of the key factors in my need to whine.

Whining = boring.

The complaining has reached plague proportions. Even with mindfulness and awareness of one's thoughts, this one, has lost the Zen garden, lost the ability to hold my tongue, has been a total snap dragon to my son.

My nearing 4 year old is pushing every button he's ever found and then some. I feel as though every second time I open my mouth I'm snapping at him. And all the other times I'm apologising for snapping at him.


I am Jack's Medulla Oblongata.


But what're ya gonna do?


Ride it out and hope that he can afford therapy when he's in his thirties. Or that I get it right more times than I get it wrong. Or that I put him in stasis for every December from now until he moves out of home so that my life as a teacher/mother/daughter/provider/sister/friend plus co-conspirator in all things tinsel won't be experienced by his gorgeous little Jelly Bean squishy little face.


I don't want him to be Jack's broken heart.


Things The Bean has said:


Dinner time, day before shopping day with little items of interest in the cupboard and/or fridge.


Me: What would you like for dinner?
TB: Um, Special Orange Soup.
Me: Sorry love, we haven't got any Special Orange Soup.
TB: Oh, I KNOW! How about Sausage Rolls?!
Me: Nup, we haven't got any of them either.
TB: Yeah you do.
Me: No honey, I don't. Sorry. What about Special Cheesey Eggs?
TB: Oh no, I can't have Special Cheesey Eggs.
Me: Why not?
TB: Cause my finger's very sore.

I had hurt my back roller skating. I was lying down on the lounge room floor, trying to stretch it out. This went on for a few days.

TB: Mama, why are you lying on the ground?

Me: My back's sore, remember?

TB: I'll go get you a face washer.

Me: Oh thanks, babe, but a face washer isn't going to fix it 'cause it's sore on the inside.

TB: Well, you'll have to put it on the inside, Mama.

Me: How can we put a face washer under Mama's skin?

TB: You'll have to open it.

Me: Hahahah

TB: And then I'll give you that yucky medicine to make you feel better.

I smile. He runs into his bedroom. Returns with the tea set.

TB: And here you go Mama, I made you a cup of tea to make your back not sore anymore.