Yesterday I was working in the garden with Martin and the kids. It was a beautiful day, we were listening to music and enjoying the sunshine, the kids were being really good. But all of a sudden, I found myself in a foul mood. I snapped at Martin and got impatient with the children. I had no idea why. And then it hit me. I was picking up rocks!
My parents built their home at the mouth of a canyon, on an old alluvial fan. There were a lot of rocks in the soil--and I mean a LOT! Dad needed all of them to be picked up so that we could have a nice
garden, and my sisters and I were all roped in to help. Then, as we got older and started being "naughty," picking up rocks was one of the ways we were punished. And my parents were smart about it, too. We didn't work by the hour. Oh no! We worked by the wagon load. Say you got home later than they told you to--two wagons full of rocks, please.
So the whole time I was picking up rocks, I felt like I was being punished for something.
The same thing happens when I have to iron men's clothes. I don't mind ironing my clothes, and I absolutely LOVE ironing the kids' clothes. But when it comes time to do Martin's shirts and trousers I end up cranky and miserable. I had to iron my dad's clothes as punishment when I was growing up, and it still feels like punishment now!
I live in fear that I will screw up my kids somehow. I guess I can only hope that the way they get messed up is no more serious than feeling like doing routine household chores is punishment for wrong doings.
All things considered, my parental issues could be a lot worse!
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