Stockholm Syndrome

CAUTION : Irritated Mom. The following may contain less than loving comments. Any lack of adoration or joy is completely and wholly the truth.

Can someone please tell me how I can share in one breath the joys and moment to moment delights of being a mom, and all of a sudden "BAM!" I can only see through eyes of irritation, frustration, and simmering anger?

“Can we have anything nice?” Is the constant mantra from my husband Paul. I hear these words when he tries to start our car amidst an array of stray papers, Mcdonald toys and sticky cupholders. I hear these words when the sound of our children slamming any door in the house, rings in our ears (this includes kitchen cabinets, sliding doors,pocket doors and car doors.)

I opened our kitchen pantry the other day to find the peanut butter (picture above) with Reynolds Wrap being used as a type of lid-sling for the broken top.

What makes this so curiously intersting is this: there is a hole in the middle of the lid. Not a crack on the side, not a chip around the rim, but a hole in the middle of the plastic lid.

Do my children have access to some type of drill or peanut butter skillsaw, that I am not aware of? Today, when I went to turn on my kitchen faucet, the handle came off in my hand. The guilty suspect is a 13year old boy we call "son". I have watched him use this faucet in ways that would earn a pat on the back from any NASCAR driver.

Irritated. Annoyed. Frustrated. You bet your tooshie I am. I feel like an abused woman, "But, I love them!" I silently scream. I need them. I couldn't survive without them.

It got me to thinking, what I'm feeling may possibly be "Stockholm Syndrome". Now, before you roll your eyes hear me out. I looked this syndrome up in the dictionary.

Stockholm syndrome n. A psychological condition in which hostages or victims of kid-nappings (my emphasis/hyphen added) sometimes develop positive feelings towards their captors, on whom they depend for their survival.

C'mon, admit it, you know it sounds like a completely logical explanation.



Originally posted 11/14/07

Happy Birthday Grace!

Eleven years, one hour, and forty-five minutes ago you arrived on the scene. Instant love. That's what we felt for you. Absolutely beautiful is what you were. Even with your fuzzy bald-head, you looked like a girl baby. You were two years-old when you first told someone you were born with a pink bow in your hair (after seeing one in your one-month old picture). Your father and I never corrected you. You loved telling everyone about your pretty pink bow. And we LOVED hearing you tell everyone about it.

As you grew a little older, while going through old boxes, you even asked me if I could find it for you, if I still had it. You truly believed God had placed the bow there Himself before you were born. We went along with your story, not wanting to ruin it for you.

We would even remind you from time to time that you were born with a pink bow in your hair, hoping you would tell the story again. Then we would agree it was exactly what had happened. Until this week you believed us.

While driving home from school, we had this conversation in our car:

Grace: Mom, me and my girlfriends were talking about things we were born with. Bailey told me she was born with an extra bone in her foot. I told her I was born with a pink bow in my hair. But, mom, Bailey told me, "Grace, there is no way humanly possible that you were born with a pink bow in your hair!" But, I told her that I was. Wasn't I Mom?

Me: Well, honey...

Grace: Oh MOM! It's not true is it?!? I wasn't born with a pink bow in my hair?!? Why did you let me believe I was? You lied to me!!!

Me: Gracie, honey, you always believed it. You were so precious when you'd tell the story to all of us, I just never thought you'd believe it all these years.

Grace: (Laughing) Mom, that's ok. It is a cute story.

Me: Yes, it sure is.

So, to our precious-pink-satin-bow, we promise to let you know if there are any other stories you don't have down exactly right before you share them in junior high next year. We love you so much honey, and are grateful the Lord chose us to be your Mom and Dad.

Happy Birthday sweetheart!