Crying over spilled dinner

Sam and Owen have both been going through this really irritating phase where they want to Do It Themselves. Owen wants to climb in and out of his car seat himself, even though it takes a half an hour in the bitter cold as I stand there. He wants to poke the straw into the juice box by himself, even though he ALWAYS spills.

And, actually, Sam’s big thing is “I want to help!” But you know what? He’s not helpful. I’m sorry. He’s just not. I could do it faster myself. But since I’m supposed to RAISE this kid, as opposed to just KEEPING HIM ALIVE, I let him help whenever possible.

Usually, it’s okay. Yeah, it takes a little longer to do the laundry when he’s helping, but since he often lists that as the high point of his day (at night, I try to ask him about his favorite thing about the day), I figure it’s worth it. But sometimes, it ends up doing bad things to my blood pressure.

Last night, Sam helped me a lot with dinner. Which means it took twice as long and involved dropping some eggs on the floor. But we were finally done with his egg-and-english muffin sandwich. We just had to lay a slice of cheese on top. Of course, Sam wanted to do it himself, so I handed him the cheese and turned to put the package back in the fridge. Then I hear a crash, and turn around. The plate has been over turned. Into a puddle of melted snow. All that TIME. And now I have NOTHING.

I posted this on facebook. And somebody responded, “I totally understand what you mean! Isn’t hard when you want to laugh, but know you should be serious!”

Whoa. No. No, I was not wanting to laugh. What I meant was I wanted to cry, or scream, or walk away, but was proud because I stayed totally cool and didn’t do any of those things. We just started over.

But I love when people remind me that I am a cranky excuse for a mother and my children might be happier with a traveling circus.