Slack-jawed. Or trying to be.

My TMJ is acting up so I broke down and went a specialist. My nearly-two-hour appointment was very educational, minus a couple laughable moments when the doctor asked me, "Do you feel like you have a sufficient amount of downtime during your day?" and "Do you find yourself hurrying or rushing very often?" She was trying to determine what factors might be contributing to me clenching my jaw.

Hmm...

Well, the short person does keep me running, especially now that she's mastered the pincer grip. Every piece of lint, every speck of dirt, every stray pebble that got stuck on the bottom of someone's shoe and made it into the house is a target that she locates and puts into her mouth. At the same time I'm doing the "finger sweep" in her mouth a hundred times a day, she's reaching past me for another piece of fuzz.

I can't keep the floor clean enough. Clearly I'm not scheduling enough time for housework, as evidenced by the fact that I notice a dusty table while giving Mira her bottle, and 15 minutes later I've dusted the entire room with the burp cloth. Or have you ever seen some dirt on the floor and gone at it with a damp paper towel, only to end up mopping your entire kitchen with a roll of Bounty? I can't be the only one.

But let's be fair. I can't give Mira all the credit for my jaw clenching.

Oh my gosh, the DRAMA. She has begun using the baby monitor to voice her woes when she is sent to the room she and Mira share. I can tell from the volume and clarity that she is speaking directly into the monitor, like it's a microphone. (Her personal complaint mic, I guess). Downstairs in the kitchen as I am making dinner and contending with three other kids, the monitor crackles: "Nothing's fair!" "This is the worst day EVER!" "You don't even care how sad I am!"

Despite what I consider to be an ocean of loving patience on my part, the accusations about injustice fly. "Everything's about Abby. You don't even care about me. I'm just a speck of dust!" (Somehow this blog seems to be all about her, though). Of course, now she's got proof to back up her claims. In the middle of a recent tantrum she came stomping downstairs and tearfully cried, "The Magic 8 Ball is right! You DO hate me!"

What can I say to that?