On Anger, Part 3

Having spent some time this week recalling my classical education, I should have remembered one of the pervasive themes in Greek literature: hubris.

After my self-congratulatory and -celebratory post on anger management this morning, our afternoon completely dissolved into a study in frustration and anger. And I'm going to blame it all on computer games. After rest time, a snack, and some art time when they drew suns and smiley faces, the kids wanted to play computer games. Now, I don't particularly enjoy playing computer games but I relented because they seemed so excited, though I had told myself that I really would make computer games Mama's preserve.

I should stick to my decisions. The children were quickly frustrated by games they didn't understand and couldn't play, and, even though I was sitting right there, I am not fluent in computer game structures and strategies and couldn't help much. That's right Dr. Mommy Hungry was defeated by Diego. Or by systems limitations: several games required plug-ins and I couldn't remember the administrator password on my computer, not being its usual administrator. This went on longer than I ever should have let it, even after I said they could only play the Caillou games we all knew how to play. That's when odd things would happen, like they would suddenly change webpages (I learned later this was a quirk if they hit the wrong mouse button; Mama worked tonight to disable it). They'd have to start their game/turn all over again, severely trying the patience of both the waiting child and me. I finally ended it, to tears all around, realizing that no one was having a good time and it was just getting worse. I apologized for getting angry at the computer explaining that I didn't like that I couldn't help them to have fun. I should've apologized for not following my mommy instincts and not turning on the damned games in the first place. Strike one.

So, we went in the kitchen to cook dinner and Bud was helping me scramble eggs. Sis decided she wanted to move her chair back to the table, would I give her a "ride?" No. I needed to watch Bud cook over the hot skillet. But had I said no too sharply? Too loudly? More tears, and cries of "I want Gommie." Oooh, that hurt. Strike two. Even though I explained my reasons for saying no--the ones of health and safety--it didn't heal her hurt or mine (since I felt mean, even if justified).

We downed dinner unhappily, but had some bright moments afterwards talking about our trip to the Met tomorrow, and then headed up to bed, sans Mama who was running late from a meeting. More chaos, more anger. When they refused to get dressed and wouldn't even hear my directions over their rambunctiousness, I just closed the door to their room, which they can't open by themselves from the inside, and left them there. Quiet commenced and then cries from Bud: "Mommy, I got dressed. Why did you leave?"

Strike three, Mommy's out.