Managing one's parents

In the last post I implied that I have yelled at Edith. It's not actually true. At least, not in the stand in the doorway and let loose way that Harriet's mother does in the book. I have erupted with an exasperated "Edith!!" on occasion, like when she planted her shod foot in the middle of my dinner plate (reason #465 not to nurse at the dinner table). And I have yelled a warning "No!," as when she was on the verge of yanking the double-pointed needles out of a kntting project in process. But yelled at length as a manner of venting, nope. But I hardly feel superior to Harriet's mother, because I do let my frustrations show in other ways, as Edith made clear the other day.

Nursing Edith has become something of a chore. She is very athletic about the process, and likes to wiggle, kick (she got me in the temple yesterday, again with shoes on), dig her nails into my belly button, and pinch me all over during a session. I've tried working on it some with her, but I haven't done a good job of laying down the rules. When I attempt to dissuade her from pinching or poking, she cries as if I'd stripped her of some essential component of the meal. So far we haven't pursued it much beyond the crying.

She also switches sides frequently. Perhaps it doesn't sound onerous, but constantly turning a 25-lb. creature back and forth to face the opposite direction gets tedious. The other day I was trying to remain patient, but on the fifth or sixth side-switch I'd had it. I wasn't rough, but I was cursory in turning her, and I heaved a deep sigh. Edith noticed. Having been turned, she stopped nursing, looked up, and reached out to pat my jaw, while in the voice she uses toward the dog said placatingly, "Nice, nice, mommy."

I think I've been patronized by a toddler.