Subourbon Mom

Ah, the end of the school year approaches, and with it comes the total loss of control over my schedule. Along with drooping peonies and humidity that makes me move around like an amoeba, comes the inevitable barrage of end-of-the-school-year-things-to-remember: sports banquets, teacher gifts, coach gifts, graduations, overlapping sports teams’ schedules, and the ever-popular “We-Must-Get-These-Done-Before-Exams-Projects” that require a dozen trips to the craft store and something called foam board.  Add to that the end-of-year-things-to-remember as a teacher, and my brain just about exploded. (Even the hyphens are on overload this time of year!)

So, I did what any normal, southern mom would do.

I lost my mind on my family.

I’m a big fan of the phrase “control what you can control.” Apparently, what I decided I could control this week was the distribution and consumption of deli turkey meat in our home.

Historically speaking, every time I’ve bought it in the past, the family might eat a little of it, then leave it alone until it turns an odd, greenish hue, roughly the same shade as the sky before a tornado. Even The Dog turns her nose away.  For months, I have refused to purchase anymore deli meat, and for months my loved ones would periodically remark that I never buy the “good turkey” anymore, and they would LOVE to fix more meals themselves if only I would provide them with the means to do so—the magic ingredient? Deli Turkey.

The other day, in a fit of generosity and optimism, I bought the Magic Turkey and announced that it was awaiting their pleasure in the fridge.  Two days went by and I made another announcement. On the fourth day, the Magic Turkey still lay there, neatly wrapped and taped.  Nobody touched it.

Finally, Hubby pulls out the Magic Turkey and decides to use it on a BLT, exclaiming, “Hey! I’m going to use this turkey. Does anybody else want to?”

Then he sniffed it.

“Are you sure you want to eat it?” I asked, arms crossed, a dangerous glint in my eye. “It’s been in the fridge for FOUR days. I know how you feel about leftovers.”

Hubby looked puzzled. “This is the first time I’ve seen it,” he said.

“Seriously?” I snapped. “I’ve been announcing that it’s in the fridge for the last four days, and no one could be bothered to use it.”

Sensing he’d messed up but not sure why, Hubby wisely went quiet.

From the couch came Daughter #1’s helpful voice: “You only told us two days ago. You never said four.”

And from Daughter #2: “You’re under-exaggerating it.”

I stomped around the kitchen, thinking how ungrateful they all were, how thoughtless when I was trying to work within a budget, and arguing out loud with them over when I informed them the Magic Turkey was purchased.

Trying to smooth things over, Hubby asked, “Does anyone else want some turkey on their BLT?”  Daughter #1 raised her hand, and Hubby commenced making her one.

As I cleaned and wiped and slammed things around to make myself feel better, I heard Hubby say, “There’s only one piece left—anyone want it?”

I stopped and spun around and shrieked, “You can’t eat it all at once!”

There was a moment of silence—only Carson Daly from The Voice could be heard in the background.

Finally, Daughter #1 peeked over the couch and said, “What’s wrong with you? Do you want us to eat it or not?”

Daughter #2 chuckled, and the absurd moment was over.  I still felt vaguely put-upon, as my mom would say, and swiped at the counters some more. What was wrong?  Nothing.  I was just overwhelmed and chose the wrong thing to try to control.

I recently told one of The Daughters that you can’t control what other people think or say about you—you can only control how you react to them.  Next time, I think I’ll try to take my own advice and control my temper. After all, they’re the people I love the most.

Bless their hearts.