Mirror Moment   

I grit my teeth and mutter to myself. Then I take a deep breath and ask her to please find out what the baby wants while I wash my hands and take a break from breading the chicken cutlets so I can lower the music and answer the door.

She makes a half-hearted attempt to soothe the baby, then disappears, off to trace a drawing of Minnie Mouse. I look at the toys strewn all over. I feel bad that I can’t sit and play with my toddler; I wish my daughter would at least do that. And when I see her shoes in the hallway, and her knapsack at the door, I have to stop myself from talking sharply to her.

I try to soothe myself and accept that she’s not the “helping” type. Even simply cleaning up toys is a long procedure of color-coding or stacking shapes that takes forever and looks more like playing than cleaning up. I know that if she just learns to take care of herself and her belongings, it will be an accomplishment. Yet as much as I talk to myself and try to work through acceptance, I still feel resentful and frustrated.

One day, I was kvetching yet again to my sister about how impossible it is to see a nine-year-old girl who does nothing to help out in the house. I started the familiar rant of what I did at that age.