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Spitting Mad

This morning finds me fueled by over the counter allergy meds…and a blossoming rage. There is so much I didn’t know about children before I had the little man. I’ve read a number of parenting books, but for the most part have been learning as we go. Early on I was surprised by things like diaper explosions (where the poo squirted up his back and into his hair), or the middle of the night burpings which resulted in cottage cheese like masses in my hair. That I could all deal with. Now that he’s older, our issues are…different. Behavioral. When he sauntered over to me this morning rather than giving me the usual hug he, ugh, spat on me. Then giggled. Apparently he thought this was cute and playful. After a lifetime of conditioning, I automatically regard it as a display of utter contempt and disgust. Or maybe I regard the act with utter contempt and disgust. Either way it resulted in a timeout for the little man…and my own personal timeout, replete with slow breathing and counting to ten. The weekly parenting class I attend has been offering we, the parents, the advice to take ownership of our feelings. Telling us that our children can’t make us angry…only we can make ourselves angry by reacting to them. I can accept this to an extent. But man, that boy certainly knows how to push my buttons.