So. Since updating this site, I may have forgotten that I was going to do a #JustWrite post on the first Wednesday of each month. But guess what? I have remembered today – bonus. This month’s word prompt is ‘frustration’ because that is what I am feeling this week. So I am going to try and write the frustration right out of myself… Have a go yourself – up to 500 words, use the prompt as you see fit, and comment if you please!
frustration |frʌˈstreɪʃn| noun [ mass noun ] 1 the feeling of being upset or annoyed as a result of being unable to change or achieve something: tears of frustration rolled down her cheeks.• [ count noun ] an event or circumstance that causes one to feel frustrated: the inherent frustrations of assembly line work.2 the prevention of the progress, success, or fulfilment of something: the frustration of their wishes.
She unpacked the dishwasher, and started the re-stacking process. The kids were yelling at each other in the shower; something about one wanting the blue washer, not the stupid yellow washer. Then there was crying and the shower door slammed and one kid streaked past on the way to the bedroom, leaving wet footprints across the carpet.
“Dinner’s nearly ready, come and set the table please,” she called out over the top of the argument about who was turning the shower taps off.
They traipsed into the kitchen, one by one, asking as they arrived, “What’s for dinner, Mum?”
“What are we having tonight?”
“What eating, Mum?”
“Sausages and vegetables,” she replied, bracing herself for the incoming torrent of differences of opinion.
“But, I don’t like sausages!” said one, and so she added to the menu, “What if we have pepper gravy, too?” to which there was a conflicting response of “Yeah, yum!” and “But I don’t like pepper gravy!” to which she then had to remind them that you don’t have to have pepper gravy if you don’t want it. Have some bloody barbecue sauce instead. Of course she didn’t swear, but she said it in her head. Absolutely.
The next hour was interspersed with whining about brushing teeth and getting lunch boxes and water bottles out of bags so that they could be repacked for school. There was a small period of quiet as Home and Away sapped out their brains, before they were shipped off to bed to read a book.
When the mum finally collapsed into bed later that night, after putting on a load of washing, finished packing the dishwasher and starting it again, cleaned the kitchen, found clothes for the next day, threatened the kids sixteen times to “just go to bed and stay in bed!”, she thought to herself… “Why don’t parents ever get a Star of the Week award? For washing and cleaning? For taking the kids to dance and footy and tennis and guitar lessons? For cooking and keeping their bellies full? For breaking up the continuous fights?”
And then she remembered, the quiet appreciation of her daughter as she was saying good night to her, “Today was the best day ever. Thank you for letting me do dance, Mum.”
And the excitement after footy training: “Did you see me tackling, Mum? And catching the footy when it was high in the air?”
And the game of hide and seek with the smallest child, when she had laid in the bath giggling at her daughter who could hear her name being called as a hint for the right direction to go in, but still couldn’t see her Mum in the bottom of the tub, so she was knocking on the wall saying, “Hello Mum, are you in there?” thinking she was inside the walls.
That’s probably close enough for a Star of the Week award. Even if frustration does play a major part in the course of every day.