Silly games.

Lincoln, my almost three year old, scrutinizes our overfilled bookshelf. I’d win a bet on which books he will pull off, every time. I quietly observe his selection and smile to myself knowing exactly what will come next.

He opens up the Spidey Pop Up book flips through each page with increasing speed, eyebrows scrunched together. He slams it shut and runs back to the bookshelf. ABC Pop Up book, same result. He grunts a little as he goes to find the Opposites Lift the Flap book. Now he is enraged.

“They all broken!” He looks truly confused as if this is a surprise to him and we didn’t have this same conversation yesterday and the day before that and thirteen times last week and a hundred times through the month of December.

“Yeah, they are. What happened, bubba?”

“I ripped it! I so angry!” His anger, in this scenario, is so cute. I could bottle it up and eat it like jelly on toast.

“Yeah, you did. That is frustrating.” I smile a little as he groans. He sits back down and slowly checks each page again, ensuring he didn’t over look any opportunities to rip a good flap and be irate about it tomorrow.

I texted my husband to invite him in on the chuckle. How silly is Linc?

Then I thought about it deeper.

Do I not do this everyday, multiple times a day, too?

Screw myself over then seethe over the consequences.

The self sabotage is real.

Though I don’t find it as cute when I do it.

It looks like leaving the kitchen a mess after dinner because the babies are crying, the big kids need a bath, and Lincoln is dumping the lego bin and hasn’t even had his hands wiped off yet. The reasons why it’s left a mess could go on and on, but then when it’s time to cook breakfast the next morning I feel the same rage I witnessed in my toddler.

I am moaning and groaning and starting my day irate that I have to clean the kitchen before I can cook in it because I left it a mess the night before.

Handling it all feels nearly impossible.

I am always fighting the battle of giving myself grace and spiraling disappointment at what I fail to do. Evenings are hard. Bed time comes fast and there is so much to do in order to get everyone in bed in a timely manner. Things slip through the cracks.

But when I play the same stupid games over and over again, I can’t be surprised at the stupid prizes I win.

Matt and I are constantly checking in with each other, asking “What can we do to make this go smoother? What exactly would you like from me in this moment to help you?”

We are working it out. We have to try a million wrong ways to find the perfect answer. Then once we find it, it works for a week before we have to hit the drawing board again. Repeat cycle endlessly.

Mentally, it’s coming to terms with the fact that a solution will never stick.

I want to feel the goodness, the lightness of our successful moments and see our failures as another opportunity to find a new way to attack the problem. I need to hop, skip, and jump over the black hole of self doubt that says nothing matters and it will always suck anyways.

When I can’t find any clean underwear I won’t wear the face of shock I giggled at on Lincoln knowing damn well I have neglected my laundry mountains for too long. Another stupid prize.

When I’m irate the dogs have shredded trash again, I’ll remember the sweet smile and head shake I gave my son when he was the cause of his own letdown. Because… same.

I will myself to stop doing the things that I know fail me. Life is hard enough without me getting in my own way.

Lincoln has expressed his deep desire to get new pop up and lift the flap books. He loves them a lot, so much so his little hands can’t help but destroy them. We talked about how he feels when he see them ripped up and when they do not work anymore. I told him I’m not sure he’s ready for new ones yet until his hands remember to be gentle.

He said, “I do better next time, mommy.”

I think to myself- yeah, me too.