Why I am a complainer.

First, I am a complainer by nature - sin nature, that is. And I was conditioned to become a complainer by my mother - a complainer. I am also a complainer by habit. It's a hard habit to break. But I am also a complainer because it is more acceptable than being a batterer or a murderer. Stupid, inept people "make" me complain.

My daughter goes to ballet lessons. I work very hard to get her there on time. Many times, I fight with her to get her dressed to get there on time. And we arrive with time to change into her ballet shoes, pee one last time if necessary, and be in the studio at 5:30. And then the class starts late. The instructors don't have their music cd's ready. Often they don't have their lesson plans finalized, and when there is more than one teen helper in the class there is a lot of visiting going on versus teaching.

I want to complain. I want to very sweetly share my frustration. But I hold it in.

My kids go to swim lessons. Baby's class usually starts on time, and runs long. Little Boy's class often starts late and ends on time. I am paying $70 for his 6 weeks of lessons. The class is only half an hour long. If she cuts off 10 minutes, he's only getting 20 minutes of lessons. And his class has two skill levels in it - swimmers and Little Boy. Ok, there's a girl who can't swim, either. And the two of them either get left behind, or the swimmers don't get as much attention. Last night, Little Boy spent a good portion of the lesson, dog paddling from one end of the pool to the other, with one arm on the ledge. I didn't pay $70 for him to do that. Before the end of class, the teacher did help him paddle in the middle of the lane. And he did jump in at the end only holding onto one of her hands.

I want to complain. I wanted to go to the desk and talk to the manager. But I didn't.

I see how others regard the care of my diabetic son, and it is clear that no one is as diligent in his care as my husband and I. I don't slip him sweets, I don't encourage empty carbs, I don't guess at his carbs, I don't let him eat what he wants and then try to guess at his insulin. I read labels, I count carbs, I weigh food, I measure food, I am pained at the grocery store when I make choices that are best for him rather than what is yummiest. I confiscate candy from my kids every Sunday and try to run interference with my in-laws.

I should complain, but I try to manipulate things instead.

I go to church, and I see how things are thrown together at the last minute. And I see how things are done conveniently, instead of professionally. And it bothers me. Down in the core. I've offered to help with things, but am not taken up on it. I've helped organize things with checklists, and people think I'm crazy. People get up to sing, and it's so clear that they didn't even run through the song. It makes me want to scream. I've been taught - hammered - that whatever I do for the Lord needs to be done with excellence.

And I want to complain. But I don't.

I wish I could be one of those happy, oblivious people who comes, warms the pew, gets a blessing and leaves. But I just can't seem to get there.

Our local McDonald's is the worst. I hate to cook on Sunday, so we pick up McDonald's on the way home. For a while I kept track of the wrong order stuff on the calendar. It has gotten better lately, but last week they messed up when my DH bought dinner for him and Little Boy. He complained online. He got a response, and two coupons for free value meals.

I'm glad I married a complainer.


Is there something wrong with me? I feel like I'm doomed to be a complainer for the rest of my time here on Earth.

I guess what it is is that I work so hard to keep things in line, running smoothly and looking professional, that when others come rushing through it's an insult.