just a piece of bologna

I really enjoy reading The Sandwich Life.  I feel considerable kinship with Cynthia -- sandwiched as she is between her young children and her elderly mom (her dad died this year).

Today I thought of Cynthia and asked the Universe for a morsel of her patience.   I was on my hands-and-knees cleaning my mother-in-law's carpet and taking out her trash.  I had brought over a bunch of things to help her feel better because she has some lung congestion that might be pneumonia.  Whatever her doctor had given her wasn't helping her breathe so I brought over some herbal remedies to bring ease.

But my mother-in-law wasn't thankful for any of that (even though she asked me to bring the things I brought).  She was just mad that I had tracked in some dirt from my shoes.  She acted like she couldn't believe I could be so stupid.  So I got to work cleaning and helping her out.

Obviously, my m-i-l was tired and uncomfortable.  I just wish she could have appreciated that I came running over there with a bag full of help ten minutes after she called.

Then I shifted back to E.  She needed a day in the sunshine, not a day at home doing chores.  I snuck her tricycle into the back of the car when she wasn't looking and took her over to a nice rubberized track nearby so that she could get some practice riding it some distance.

She wasn't into that so we ran around the track a couple of times instead.  We played on a playground, and then she wanted to walk somewhere for lunch.  Again, I indulged her.  Why not?  It was a pretty summer day.  We could go on a long, long walk.  We did.  It wore her out.

On the way back from lunch, the tantrums began.  She saw a soccer field and wanted a soccer ball immediately.  Right then.  I was a bad mom for not giving it to her.  She yelled at me, stomped her feet, and hit herself (her latest way to show anger).  It took every ounce of patience I had to keep my tone-of-voice even and warm.

I know she's only three, but could she not have remembered that we just spent the last two hours out in the sunshine and having lunch and focused on her?  I am not a bad mom just because I am unable to twirl my magic wand and produce a soccer ball at her call.

So I felt like a piece of bologna -- just something boring, flat, and pink, smashed between two demanding, ungrateful pieces of bread.  Sometimes it seems as though I exist to serve and wipe bottoms and read minds.  Will I ever get a scrap of my own life back?