Most of the time, it's my weak attempt at humor.
But then, there are days like this.
I've been living a full 24 hours every sixty minutes, and during each "day" I feed Joel, clean up his booster seat, load the dishwasher, drink a sip of coffee, read aloud the book about the bulldozer again, search for the missing sippy cup, tell Owen to turn the TV off, tell Joel to stop eating toilet paper rolls, tell Owen to stop riding his brother like a mechanical bull, look frantically out the window to see if the snow has melted, and then I go into the kitchen, where Joel is madly gesticulating at the refrigerator, simply famished.
It's been getting old, and I'm getting testy.
I decided to go the bathroom with my smart phone to read blogs, hoping for a moment's peace. After all, "Mommy needs privacy." While I was in there, Owen opened the refridgerator and gave half a bag of shredded cheese to Joel and kept the other half for himself.
By the time I came out of the bathroom, my entire kitchen looked like a nacho bar.
The yelling and finger pointed that followed wasn't pretty. As I was doing it, I felt like Joan Crawford, and yet I couldn't stop myself. I even said, "No shredded cheese EVAH-ER!"
I need thearpy.
We're fine now. I apoligized to Owen for not controlling my temper. He forgave me, because he always forgives me.
But this is the fear that keeps me up at three AM:
When will he stop forgiving me?
What am I teaching him about anger?
And, since everybody says that I look like Cynthia Nixon, will she play me in film based on Owen's tell-all memoir?
"I told you no shredded cheese! Now I'll have to cut you."
These are serious questions, and I ask, in the spirit of the sisterhood---How do you control your temper? Not just with kids, but with anybody?
After all, I really don't want to be portrayed by Miranda.
(Besides, I think I look like Beyonce).