It’s Canadian Thanksgiving, a time where I could be reflecting on all the good things, all the things to be thankful for (who I am thanking?? never mind).
But I am a little ball of ingratitude.
I know many, too many people, whose path to their desired parenthood is riddled with loss, with medical complications, with having to literally reach around the world to grab a hold of their children, their desperately wanted children.
Me? I’d like to ship Oliver off for a week, so I can pay someone to potty train him, because it’s REALLY not going well and I just don’t get why he’d rather stand there, looking at me sheepishly, with piss running down his leg. Kid, why can’t you put it in the piece of nice red plastic? Or the other white potty we got you? Or the toilet insert? BECAUSE WE BOUGHT ALL OF THEM TO PLEASE YOU, IN CASE YOU HAD A PREFERENCE. Because I’m trying to do it by the book, by the very helpful literature preschool sent home, by what I’ve read online, and it’s not working. You don’t care. You don’t actually meet the first criteria of potty-training readiness, the one that states ‘your child is bothered by sitting in his own excrement’ – because, in fact, I think you LOVE IT.
So intensive potty training, on this long holiday weekend, which seemed like a good idea at the time, is causing me rage.
So many people are (for better, it seems, in some cases, but in some, for worse) raising their children alone. Some people are struggling in their relationships. Instead of being thankful for my marriage, I am annoyed as hell that Mark went flying this morning while I dealt with the training-resistant toddler and cranky nose-running again baby. I am thankful, however, that he’s now taken both of them out on a car ride to get them to sleep. That I have some time on my own. So maybe I won’t end up tossing Oliver across the room tonight (the rage, I swear, it’s bad – I need to go do some Wii Boxing or something).
So many people are losing their homes, particularly south of the border. I should be thankful for shelter, for our circumstances that leave us greatly protected from the economic upheaval that is affecting so many. Instead I am frustrated by our limited time to clean the house, by our limited resources to make the house how we want it, by the damn stained carpet in our family room (that is now getting more and more stained, thanks kid).
I am stirring my homemade cranberry sauce, the one I always make with orange zest, and thinking – why the hell I am bothering? I should have just opened a tin. Turkey’s in the oven, a small whole bird, instead of the boneless turkey breast we normally do. It better be worth the hours of cooking.
I think I might ask Mark to slap me across the face when he gets home – I am truly, pathetically ungrateful.
I feel the need for a glass of wine (none in the house, DAMN IT) and pumpkin pie. Emotional eating, here I come.