Monday, November 6, 2017


While Sammy fought mightily to bring his box fort plans into existence, he got so frustrated and angry that I honestly wondered if he was going to turn green and quadruple in size.  Clearly frustration leads to rage in this kid.  I wasn't surprised to find myself carrying his frustration as my own each time he hit a setback.  My muscles would tense up , my temples would throb.  I wanted to help but really couldn't (both because he wanted to do it by himself and because there's a certain amount of doom coming in trying to make sturdy walls out of cardboard and duct tape).  I knew what he was going through because that's how I feel when I get frustrated over something I can't fix.  I don't don't go quite to Hulksmash, but I really get the impulse.

I'm a fixer, for better or worse.  Better when I succeed and someone gets back something they thought was gone forever, or at least forever changed.  Worse when I'm expected to fix something and I can't or it can't be.  When I am the foregone conclusion.  I hate failing, especially when there are eyes on me.  I want to scream.  But I'm an adult, so I don't - I just internalize it and cause continuing damage to my bodily organs.

Sammy doesn't get upset over failing to fix; he gets upset over failure to realize his visions.  But it's pretty clear neither of us likes the feeling.  We are definitely mother and son. 

(This story brought to you by a black screen tablet that refuses to reboot and is driving me absolutely batty.)

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