Getting Over It

Ok, so I’m a pouter. And from what I’ve observed in my own children, that probably means I’m spoiled too. I can’t say that I can always remember being a pouter, but I guess that matters little much now.

So what am I pouting about? See, there’s the thing about it: I can’t tell you. If I told you what I was pouting about, then it would be complaining. At that point I would at best be a complainer, but most likely I would be a complainer and a pouter, which is totally worse than just the pouting itself. So I’ll just keep my mouth shut and preserve the one label, if you don’t mind.

But I will say I’m working on it. It may not seem like it if you live with me or spend much time around me, but I am trying my best to “get over it” as I’ve been advised to do so many times in so many ways lately.

“Getting over it” is a funny thing for a pouter like me. The people who say it – and genuinely mean it without ill intent – seem to think that there’s a switch you can flip that makes all the hurt and confusion that are fueling your attitude just *POOF* disappear. Well, if you happen to be a pouter too and you’ve actually found the location of said switch, please, please, PLEASE send me a detailed diagram mapping out its location, would ya? ‘Cause I’ve been looking and I can’t for the life of me find it.

That said, in the present absence of such an allusive instant cure to my bratty heartache, all I can offer is a plea for patience. I am working on it. And one day I’m sure I’ll look back and laugh at the fact that I had this emotional tantrum at all. Ok, well, maybe not laugh, but ….

Anyway, enough with all of it. Tonight is, after all, one of those healing kinds that make me not want to be a pouter anymore. We’re all sitting out on our new deck, surrounded by the golden fall sunlight and a hearty breeze. The kids are busy climbing the tree and throwing “dirt bombs” (you might not want to ask), and my husband is serenading me with the guitar. In a few short minutes we’ll retire inside to dinner and a movie because it’s Family Night, the one night when no one goes anywhere and we all do something together. Later I’ll tuck my beautiful boys into their warm, paid for beds, and my husband and I will snuggle on the couch while I make him watch a new episode of Grey’s. Honestly, who could really want more than this anyway?

I mean, after all, not every woman has a man who will watch Grey’s, right?