My Secret Violent Streak

Secret to even me is the violent streak that courses through my veins. I saw you sit back from the monitor a bit as you read that. Are you scared that I might reach through the screen? Well, you should be. Even I don’t know what may bring on a fit of violent maleficence.

The most dangerous place in the world to hang out, second only to a Middle East war zone, is the area within a two foot distance of me when I am in the kitchen. I have no regard for man or beast when I am “in the zone”.

You know the zone. It is the “load the dishwasher, break a plate, sweep up the plate, pull dinner from the oven, run water over burned finger from using a dish rag instead of oven mitt, get a kid a drink of water, answer the phone, cut up an apple, answer questions about growing a tree from the seeds…etc” zone.

I think it is fair to say that my poor sweet Ian has taken the most abuse from me while in the zone. You would think he would learn, but his love for me and the area right behind my elbow is such that he is wounded at least twice a week. I lied. More like twice a day.

I know what you’re thinking, “This is how O.J. started, Amy. It’s a slippery slope.” And you’d be right, except I don’t do it on purpose. Ian makes me hurt him. See, now I’m really sounding like O.J.

This morning Ian asked me for a drink of water. I had to get the cup out of the dishwasher (at least it was clean, if unloaded) and I got his hand with the door of the dishwasher as I was closing it (no sense unloading it if I can just close it).

“Mom! You hurt me! Why do you always hurt me? You should love me more than that!”

I started to feel sorry for him at the first cry, but when he said that bit about me needing to love him more, I felt my eyes roll so far back that I could see my twitching brain.

Have you ever done that? Have you ever hugged your crying kid with eyes rolling? I did. And I don’t feel bad in the least.

I’m off to buy a ski mask.