All we are saying...

Last week a friend, in passing (literally…she was literally walking past me), commented that she had given some thought to my identity in the whole “dictator/anarchist/bureaucrat/assassin" thing. Her suggestion was that I was actually the Diplomat of the family. Or maybe the Translator. My first reaction was to be insanely flattered. Someone was actually reading this, and had actually thought about it. My second reaction was, “Of course! How perfect! How on earth hadn’t I thought of that before!” I was basking in the brilliance of these thoughts when the Bureaucrat turned to me (he had overheard the conversation while pretending to be absorbed in a law book) and mumbled in my ear, “Yeah right. More like the ANGRY diplomat.”

I would have been offended , but he was SO right. Oh sure, I like to consider myself a peacemaker, kind and gentle, meek and mild and all that jazz. But in the context of my family and their delightfully divergent personalities, I would make a TERRIBLE diplomat. I would quit, Jet Blue Guy style, grabbing myself a drink before hurling myself out an emergency exit, “Sayonara, suckers!”

Okay, so strike the “Diplomat” thing. Maybe Translator is more apt? After all, I really do understand the various personalities of my family members, I speak Anarchist and Bureaucrat fluently, and have at least reading proficiency in Dictator. Surely Translator works? But alas, again I would be the flustered and frustrated Translator, unable to muster the patience to do my job adequately. Fine. I’m neither of these attractive alternatives. But then, to risk sounding like a soul-searching 19 year old, who am I?

It came to me like a vision. Okay maybe I’m being a touch melodramatic, but that’s my thing, let me have it. Anyway, it came to me like a vision…or maybe it just came to me. I am,…drum roll please…the Militant Peace Protester. I start off the day gazing all lovingly at everyone, dropping flowers into gun barrels, holding hands with perfect strangers, swaying, and singing “Give Peace a Chance,” but I end the day throwing rocks, screaming obscenities, and dodging nightsticks and tear gas…metaphorically speaking, of course.

I’m frustrated because we can’t all just get along and live in harmony and love each other without coercion, and in my frustration I lose it and lash out. In the morning, I sound like something out of a parenting how-to manual:

"Sorry darling, but that isn't an option. I understand that you are frustrated that Mommy is asking you to go potty in the bathroom instead of on the living room carpet. But can you think of a better way to express your rage to Mommy that doesn't involve drawing blood from her forearm with your teeth and flinging your tiny feet into her face? Mommy feels sad when you give her a black eye."

By the time we’re running 10 minutes behind schedule it sounds more like this:

“What is WRONG with everyone?! !! Don’t you people have any sense of URGENCY!? Why can’t we all just do what we’re supposed to!?!? And stop tearing Sissy’s pigtails out! I MEAN IT! No scalping your siblings!! Why can’t you two just LOVE EACH OTHER!!!!???!?!?!?!?”

And so it goes. So yeah…Militant Peace Protester. Maybe they’ll have to cart me off in a paddy wagon after a few more years of this. We’ll see. In the mean time, I’ll try to act more like I feel…a diplomat, a translator. Or maybe just a Canadian citizen (they’re stereotypically friendly and polite, right?). Or maybe I’ll just brush up on my passive resistance techniques.