Triggers

trigger

 verb

trig·geredtrig·ger·ing 

Definition of TRIGGER

transitive verb

1

a : to release or activate by means of a trigger; especially :to fire by pulling a mechanical trigger <trigger a rifle>

b : to cause the explosion of <trigger a missile with a proximity fuse>

2

: to initiate, actuate, or set off by a trigger <an indiscreet remark that triggered a fight> <a stimulus that triggered a reflex>

So today I'm talking of trigger as a transitive verb. (Now don't we all feel just a bit smarter?) 

I often talk about how great we are each doing. How wonderfully my kids have adapted, grasped, and grown into their new lives. How much joy we have now. 

It's not always so. Of course, for most of us, social media only shows us the bright side of everyone's life. So it goes without saying that we all have off days and bad moments. 

For me, the trigger isn't always evident at first. At first, I'm going about my day and making decisions and having conversations. Then, the trigger is introduced. I don't always redilly identify the trigger as such. But it remains a trigger and the fear/anger/loathing/desperation grows inside of me until it explodes all over my life and those around me. 

Side note but related: I must apologize to all of those late night Walmart shoppers- specifically in the automotive section; sub section: epoxy. I didn't know it was a trigger at the time and I'm sure that the mess was cleaned up before the next shift started. Really.

This morning was different only in that I discovered and labeled it as a trigger early into the episode.

So by trigger, I obviously mean fishing poles.

Those damn fishing poles. I hate them. I hate everything about them. I want to chop them into tiny pieces with a machete, douse them in a flammable liquid, and burn them. I'm not even exaggerating with this one, folks. I loathe those fiberglass composite rods! 

Backstory.

I used to love to fish. I was raised with a john boat, small pond, and lots of bass fishing. Then I met Andrew. Up until then, I never knew that I'd been fishing wrong all those years!! Who knew? Yup, I didn't know how to fish and he said I was too poor of a student to teach. Flash forward some years and now we have numerous children and they want to fish. Only, Daddy says that it's too much work and that "they" take all of his time and he "can't have any fun" if "they" go with him. 

I do what any wise mother ought. I spend time training them. We learn how to load the truck and get things ready and care for the poles. When we do get to the lake, I spend my time between kids, making sure that each is cared for so that Daddy gets his precious time alone.  Want a fire kids? Let's make one together (Dad says I do it wrong but won't help). Want to swim kids? Let's walk to the other side of the lake to leave Dad alone. (Still they make too much noise.) Want to eat? Let's all get the food I spent all yesterday preparing.   But here's the rub- it's not enough for him. He doesn't want to deal with anyone's fish or line or anything. In the meantime, I've been run ragged so that he gets a day off and we get to be with him. 

Finally comes the day when I complain to him that the fishing is just too much work for me. His only response? "Now you know how I feel and why I don't like them to go with me."

Fast forward to yesterday. Yesterday the poles were unpacked in the garage. I allowed the boys to practice casting them in the back yard. After all, it's what my Dad did for me. But it wasn't until this morning that the trigger was fully identified. It's not the fishing at all. It's those damn poles.  So I'm throwing them out. I don't want them. I don't care how much he spent on them. I don't want them. 

I'm giving those damn poles away and buying new ones.