Anger Management

I'm not competitive.  A perfectionist, maybe, but I've never been one to obsess over winning and losing.  (For the record, I also don't really care "how you play the game," as long as it involves wine and dessert.)

My husband, on the other hand, cares whether he wins or loses and, in addition, he seems to care very much how everyone is playing the game.  When we were dating, we'd play volleyball and he'd tell me how you have to "sacrifice your body" in order to win.  You know, "sacrifice your body" while you're standing in a sand pit with your closest friends, trying to hit a ball over a net, because this is a Thing People Do.

In the world of winning and losing, my sweet Grace is her father's daughter -- but worse, because she doesn't have 30-some-odd years of practicing self control.  Everything her dad thinks inside, Grace thinks the same thing but also yells it.

The authors of our math curriculum thought that playing a game at the end of each lesson would be a light-hearted, fun way to reinforce the concepts.  They probably envisioned a family in front of a roaring fire, with hot cocoa, chuckling to themselves about how much fun addition can really be.  I'm not going to lie -- that's sort of how I envisioned it, too.  But let me tell you, it's too hot in Austin for a fire or hot cocoa, and at the Bertram house, these math games are no laughing matter.

This week's game was a low point for us.  Against my better judgment, I actually tried to take a picture of Grace when she was on the floor, fists clenched, screaming...losing.  I abandoned the idea out of fear for my life.

Naturally, because I had no way of relating to a child this upset over losing (let's just have a cookie and move on, okay?), I summoned The One Who Does This on the Inside -- my husband.  He managed to talk Grace off the ledge with tales of the gross injustices he himself has suffered at the hands of Winners, I promised to play the game repeatedly until she won, and everything seemed to be back on track.

Until Micah asked to play.

Like younger siblings everywhere, he's not trying to dominate the game; he only wants to be included.  But as soon as he actually gets included, he wins.

I don't think I have to tell you what happened next.   I tried in vain to explain to Grace that all that mattered was that she learn divisors of ten, she declared herself the "Loser of the World," and we pretty much called it a day.  Because really, where do you go from "Loser of the World?"

Another day, another opportunity to extend the same grace to my imperfect kids that their imperfect mother needs all the time.

Grace when I've obsessed over the small things because I can't see the big picture.

Grace when I've gotten wrapped up in my own temporal measure of success instead of the bigger, eternal things that matter.

Grace to throw myself on the floor, scream until I lose my voice, and start over with a clean slate the very next day.