Angry Bird

If you’d wandered into my home a 1/2 an hour ago, you would have witnessed a five foot five mixed breed former country chick apoplectic with rage. Those of you who knew me in my younger years may not quite be quaking with shock at this revelation. These days, however, I have mostly overcome my natural bent at displaying mind-blowing anger over the little things that life doth present on a regular basis. Today, I regressed, and then some.

Having only last night received my loving spouse home from a 4 day interstate business trip, one could be forgiven for expecting something from the “nice” spectrum to be pumping through my veins. Alas, this is not to be. Said 4 days spent sans husbandly support with a teething 15 month old, belligerent 5 year old and worn out 7 year old left me a touch irritable.  Coupled with what one suspects is a savage case of PMS, the results are less than happy.

What, then, possessed me to climb up on top of a dining chair, replete with two foam mattress inserts for extra height, attempting to drill a battery powered flying Airbus A380 to the ceilings of my two male spawn? I put it down to Mother Guilt. After displaying Angry Mother characteristics for a couple of days, I was keen to provide a gesture of niceness to my sons. It began pleasantly enough. I got the cordless drill from the laundry, and told my youngest son that he could hook the plane on when the base was drilled in. Easy peasey, Japanesey. Ever tried drilling teeny tiny screws while standing on a dining chair upside down with a spastic left hand due to a childhood accident involving glass?!?! Yeah, well I have, and I am telling you, the rage was almost justified.

As my fairly useless left hand began cramping up under the strain of holding the smallest screws even produced straight so that drilling could commence, I felt the molten lava of rage ascend from the pit of my premenstrually rounded stomach. I attempted some “self talk” as prescribed by many and various so-called mental health professionals. Bastards. After my twelfth attempt, when the screw popped out of my gnarled digits and bounced onto the floor, I could contain myself no more. The sound I emitted was both loud and primal. My five year old was advised with as much calm as I could muster that leaving the room and popping on some cartoons may now be a good option. For a kid whose general response to my suggestions is to defy me, I must say I was impressed by the speed with which he staged his exit. That would be the survival instinct shining through, I suppose.

I came down from my rickety position atop the chair loaded with height-giving cushions, and located the all important miniature screw. I called it very bad words. And no, not “crap”. Determination to assuage my Mother Guilt was strong in me, however, and thus I would not rest until the goddamn Airbus A380, $25 from your local airport, was whizzing around in a wizzy circle from ceilings of both of my lads.

Dear Reader, I am pleased to report that I achieved this goal. I roared. I cried. I kicked inanimate objects. I stomped my feet like a 3 year old not allowed to chew gum while my older sibling gleefully blew bubbles in my face. Frustration, lack of co-ordination and hands weakened by childhood tendon damage were no match for my need to follow through on my promise to my sons. The goddamn planes are attached firmly with all three screws, and spinning gleefully with no place to go, and no hope of landing. Excuse me now, wont you, while I go and stuff my face with chocolate, shortbread and the odd nip of gin, I need self medicating STAT!

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