You'd think that, as a (crabby)dad, I'd know the meaning of word "frustration." Not getting to sleep in... ever, having to read the Sunday Times in three minute chunklets, trying to fit microscopic rubber shoes on puny dolls, trying to get the spawn clothed, fed, brushed and out the door on time in the morning, and fed, unclothed, bathed, brushed and in bed on time at night, avoiding getting kneed/elbowed/punched in the cacahuetes on a regular basis, not having friends above the age of nine, not getting to do what you want to do, like... ever... you know -- frust-fucking-ration.
Well, today I realized that I don't know frustration from my stinkhole. I opened Miss O's lunchbox after camp and discovered that the girl didn't eat her Go-Gurt today. She fucking loves Go-Gurt, and it was just sitting there -- unopened. I asked her why she didn't eat it, and she said, forlornly, "Oh... I couldn't get it opened. I pulled the flap, but it broke off, so I tried to bite it off, but that didn't work." I asked her why she didn't ask one of the counselors for help, and she replied, "When I was trying to bite it off, I slobbered on it, and I didn't want them to get slobber on their hands. And you didn't give me a napkin to wipe it off -- you never give me a napkin. [dramatic pause/exhale] So I just didn't eat it."
And then we sat in silence as, together, we listened to the sound of my cold, dark heart breaking.