How’s Gracie Trying to Kill Me Now

Here’s another one to file under “mom is always kind-of-right.”

When mom irritates the shit out of me and I call her on it, she falls back on the argument that I should learn to control myself and not be so easily irritated. This isn’t exactly fair, because by the time I snap at her, my other cheek has probably been turned for some time and through some serious bullshit, but she nonetheless has a point: I can’t change her; I can only manage me. That’s the core lesson of many an office politics/dynamics class, and of clinical psych 101: your power against external events (and people, and animals) is in how you react, and that’s something. (See this post on mom-narcissism--apparently mine isn't unique in justifying abusive behavior as a personal favor for the greater good).

I can try to reason with mom, tell her that having to listen to her backseat drive/tell me I have Hagrid hair/point out that I’ve gained wait/etc. ad nauseum would unnerve a saint. Just because my reaction is ultimately up to me, doesn’t mean she can’t also control herself and refrain from trying really hard to push me over the edge. And yet, I concede her point: my reaction is ultimately up to me, and it would behoove me to grow immune to agitation. I can at least reason with Mom (although I would also refer you to Barney Frank’s dining room table analogy about the utility of doing so); there’s even less utility in reasoning with Gracie.

This morning, after I’d already fed her, she decided to start whining. I don’t know why. It was a grating, needy, unnerving whine. I was running a little later for work than would have been my preference, and I was slicing a pepper to have as a snack with my hummus. Gracie let out a “rrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrrrrr;” I told her to shut up. She let out another, even more annoying one. I got agitated and sliced right into my thumb, which proceeded to bleed profusely. I dealt with that, dealt with my pepper. She didn’t stop whining. I screamed at her—at that point, she knew I meant business, and promptly shut up. I’ve blogged before about her ability to pick the absolute worst times to be needy and whiny, and how inevitably they exacerbate my already agitated state. My thumb still bleeds when I change bandaids, and Gracie still has the nerve to whine for no good reason. And my mom has a point: I can’t change her; I can only train myself to tune her out.