We had a fight, or almost a fight, this morning. A very typical situation, Mistress were going to take little S to the supermarket, little S refused to put any clothes on and ran around the living room naked, we aborted the mission and had some coffee and donuts instead, and afterwards we semi-tricked her into clothes by offering her the too big Pippi Longstrump-t-shirt we got her this summer.
I was deftly and sneakily pulling a pair of underwear on her legs while distracting her with small talk when Mistress interrupted me and wanted me to wait while she got the pair little S started the day wearing, instead of putting on a new pair.
And I flipped. Because... I was doing my best. Because I was almost succeeding. Because I was pretty sure that the delay would mean little S would go back to dancing naked around the living room, and I frankly didn't have the energy or focus to manage to lure her in once more. Because I had been so proud in knowing I was helping, that I was contributing, that I could feel like a competent mom and an asset to the family, and because it hurt me that 1) it wasn't good enough and 2) I wouldn't be allowed to succeed.
Mistress was forcing me to failure, and then, in my minds eye, I was sure she would be angry and irritated with both me and little S, and I would feel guilty for not being able to fix it. And also, the pressure of the thought of having to once again run around chasing a little naked someone and trying to dress her (like putting a hysterical octopus down a net with big holes in it without any arms sticking out...) felt like it was crushing me. In an instant I was convinced that it would end with Mistress angry and me crushed, broken down, laying on the living room floor crying, a failure both as a mother, a wife and her property.
So I snarked at her that couldn't she pleeease not bother just this once and let me do my thing? Or something to that effect. And Mistress got angry and pointed out "all the things I haven't said anything about!" which made me feel like a complete failure at everything, and sent me spiralling down an emotional chasm of raging fury and despair. Mistress jumped down her own dark well in the same instant, and well... here we go again.
Only, we didn't. We didn't yell or accuse or acted out. We tried talking, in intervals between getting little S ready and prepared to go out the door, and in the end I stalked off to go sulk on the bed. Before she left, Mistress came in and looked at me and said: "I know your feelings are hurt and that you're angry. But I'm going to give you an order now. I want you to get dressed and put your running shoes on and go out for a jog, and when you get inside again I want you to take a shower. And I want you to start now."
And I did. It was possible, even if my hurt feelings felt like a lead weight in my chest. And after running a while I sent Mistress a text, and she texted me back. And all is right in the world again. And soon they'll be coming home, so I'll go make pancakes now. And we're so frikkin awesome to save this, to not destroy the whole day, to actually keep our heads even when the hearts are screaming in terror.
She's my Mistress. And I'm so incredibly proud of her, and of being allowed to be hers.
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