A Burrito Appocalypse

Breath. I remind myself. Breath.

I’m frantically cooking in the kitchen while my mind races, scrolling through everything I need to do. My brothers still haven’t eaten. A.J. can’t find his left cleat. I have to pack the car, let the dog out, clean up, and get the boys out the door and I’m not even dressed. The dog won’t shut up. The clock is ticking away, each second adds to the intensity of all those soccer mom’s glares when we arrive late to my little brother’s practice, again.

Breath. I remind myself. Breath.

“Shit!” I mutter. The fried burritos I’m making have turned black, but I roll them in paper towels anyway. It will have to do. A little carcinogen never hurt anyone, right?

Breath. I remind myself. Breath.

But then I make the mistake of turning over my shoulder. No breath is going to help me now. I see my older brother, sitting on the couch. He’s wrapped in a blanket and just sitting there, completely unperturbed by the situation unfolding. I can’t take it. It’s too much. Before I have any time to think I hear words flying from my mouth.

“Tyler! What are you doing? Do something!” I storm over from the kitchen, spatula still in hand, “Can you not see that we’re late!?! Can you not help me!?! Go find A.J.’s shoe! Go get the lawn chairs! Go get the blankets! Help me cook! What are you doing?!?”

He gets up slowly, but he doesn’t seem disturbed enough by the entirely epic crisis at hand, so I continue, “I just can’t stand it when you do this! Assert yourself. Look around! Do you really not see me freaking out and trying to get everyone out the door?!? For God’s sake I’m still in my pajamas! Do something!”

I was livid. How dare he relax while I was dealing with burnt burritos, lost shoes, judgmental soccer moms, and pajamas-which practically adds up to Armageddon, right ? In fact sometimes my life seems to be a series of miniature dooms-days that creep up on me and send me spiraling out of control- like a tornado plowing down everything in its path. But looking back, those terribly stressful events were nothing but an irrational response to the mundane. My anger flares up at any given opportunity, and when it does I rarely hesitate to hurt the people I love.

Irritability is not a new issue for me. Before I could clearly speak I would hold my palm out in protest and defiance to any one I disliked. One of my earlier words was “actually” and I was quick to reprimand those I thought to be wrong. I would throw wild temper tantrums that took me far too long to grow out of. I’ve always been quick to express my frustration, even at the expense of others.

Yet as irascible as I am at home, I’ve always managed to maintain control in school. Teachers and friends have been under the impression that I am of docile nature, but in the confines of my own home I quickly lose control. When I threw fits with shrieks and flailing limbs, my mother always reprimanded me saying, “What would your friends think if they saw you acting like this?” What would happened if they knew my flaw of quick-temperament? What would happen if friends saw me screaming at my brother because we were running late? Maybe I would lose them all, but knowing the friends I’ve been blessed with they would likely be gracious and forgiving. Either way, I would be entirely mortified, mortified because I know just how ridiculous it is.

In the end I know my quick-temperament is foolish and over the years I have tried to change. According to my gracious brother I have, but there is still so much room to grow. I still scold my innocent family and become infuriated over things that hardly matter. Hopefully one day I can learn to keep my cool even when burritos are burning.