the good, the bad

I was all set to rant about my evening last night, and then, as I was walking through our newly renovated food court downstairs (National Press Building), I hear a, "Kate!" and I see my dear friend Mike. Whoa! It took my brain an extra second to process, "this is not someone I work with! I can forgo the socially pleasant hello and render an actual, heartfelt one!" It was very fun, in one of those slightly awkward ways (table not big enough for three, so Mike's friend Schuyler sitting, Mike standing, me standing -- ugh), to see some familiar faces breaking up the workday. I am quite sure these things don't happen accidentally. I almost NEVER walk through that food court. Unless I'm hoping Kabuki sushi and teriyaki has, in fact, opened. *sigh* But that delight was not to be.

The bad: I hesitate to be totally honest here, because you will surely want to wrest my poor child from my incompetent arms and find her a better home. But last night was one of those evenings -- VERY rare these days, VERY frequent during the dreaded colicky months -- when I was tempted -- tempted, mind you -- to fantasize about striking her. Just a good little whack! upside the head to see if that helped calm her down. (doubtful, though I've never tried. Honest!) She was FREAKING OUT, in a way only a 2-year-old can freak out. And why? What a lovely question. One that I kept asking, trying to word it in ways my frantic 2-year-old could process (she doesn't get 'why' yet). She didn't know. She wanted me to pick her up. She didn't want us to sit still, though. She didn't want to walk. She wanted to poop, then she didn't want to get off the pot. (seriously, not metaphorically.) It was ridiculous. There was NOTHING WRONG with her.

Or was there? Because this, you see, is just about my most frustrating parental dilemma: As the mom -- or either parent, perhaps -- I'm supposed to intuit when something is just 2-year-old wrong, and when something is WRONG. She was sitting on the potty, looking down at her, uh, genitals, then she said, "It HURTS!" And it did look really red, in a deep-tissue kinda way. But I'm not real familiar with what she's supposed to look like these days, as we are not potty trained. So am I not wiping enough (easy solution, no big deal)? Is nothing wrong (even better)? Or is there something HORRIBLY AWRY, in which case I need to call the doctor, possibly medicate her in some way, and stress about all night? The same clues could lead to either conclusion. Drives me wild. So, I got on the phone with Kaiser. I was informed "my expected wait time is, twenty-two minutes." I sat. And sat. Then she finally chilled out some. I forget what did it. Dinner being ready? Promise of ice cream afterward? Something that didn't work a half hour before, or a half hour before that. I guess maybe she just ran her course. She claimed she didn't hurt any more. Arghh!

Some evenings, I just wish for NOTHINGNESS. I will even settle for, May I kindly get home, please, from our 45-minute commute, and just sit and open my junk mail? For ninety seconds, perhaps? But as I've noted before, you can't divvy it up like that. I'm quite sure there are great reasons for that, but it sure is frustrating.

How old do I have to get to be a wise, patient person, anyway? Can't I be that NOW? ;)