Thud, clank, clank -- sticky, orange puddles coat the floor, and before I can grab a towel, the toddler runs through it, barefoot.
Deep breathe on the outside, internal scream of frustration inside my head.
I lend a smile to a sheepish-looking preschooler, who clearly sees the error of his breakfast glass placement now that its liquid is no longer safely concealed inside.
As I spring to action, grabbing a towel, I can hear inside my head all the things I want to say.
I told you so.
I asked you to be careful.
I warned you that would happen.
Look at this mess!
Because I've had enough sleep, food, water, I can shoo those thoughts away and regroup my thoughts.
What do I really want to say about this, I ask myself. What do I want him to remember me saying.
I look at the hazel eyes staring up at me, waiting to see my reaction, soften and say, "Accidents happen."
But I so easily could've gone a road I've taken so many times before, exploding volcano style with huffs and groans and ashy black words that mar my little one's mind.
Here's the thing -- a few weeks ago, I didn't even notice how I was reacting, but as I've been reading Raising Our Children, Raising Ourselves* and applying the author's method of response {NOT reaction}, I've witnessed my very selfish, very immature reactions to frustrations.
And I've noticed that G.'s reactions to frustration {you know, the ones I'm always trying to change -- like when he huffs or yells or groans?} are mirrors of my own reactions to situations I don't like.
{Yes, you read that right; I've been reacting to my toddlers like a toddler. Groan.}
And today, I doubt the OJ scene would have stuck out so clearly had I not witnessed the most beautiful moment between G., his toddler brother and me.
G. and I were building a fortress, a lair for his lions.
We were stacking the colorful, vibrant Duplos carefully, strategically {so the lions wouldn't escape}.
It turned into a labor of love that took us about 20 minutes to create.
No sooner than G. had placed all the lions inside, 17-month-old E. {affectionately referred to as Babyzilla} scurried over to the fortress and tore it apart when his brother and I took a quick water break.
Our masterpiece was ruined.
G.'s face fell, clearly disappointed.
I braced myself for screaming and yells of frustration.
But instead he looked at me, smiled and said, "Well, I guess we'll have to rebuild it."
I looked at the colorful blocks, totally scattered everywhere and said, "Yup. I guess we will."
And so we rebuild, restructure, one block at a time.
{* by Naomi Aldort}
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