I admit it. I was one of those moms who said, "my kid will never..." I thought I had a say in how my kids' personalities would form. I ridiculously assumed that because I am their mother, that would be enough to make them obey. And right about now, Karma has raised her hand and is b*tch slapping my righteous ass.
Let me tell you about my sassy baby girl. She speaks her mind and is too smart for her own good. It's true what they say, the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree and oh my Lawd, that child has an attitude I hate to recognize. Most days, I feel like I am dealing with a PMS-ing 5-year-old. Her refusal to simply do as she is told makes my blood boil to a temperature hot enough to fry an egg on my tired ass.
My beautifully spirited daughter will go far in life, I have no doubt. I'm just not sure we'll both survive to see it happen. I'm old school, people, with southern roots. I don't take kindly to talking back. I have that "look" that scares children and grown ass men when you cross a certain line, but my daughter is rarely affected by it. Not this child, oh no. She sees it as a challenge. She has a fighter's heart and will not back down. She will argue her point, even when she knows I know she's wrong. She is the most passionate being I know. For better or worse. She has a tender soul with fierce blood running through her. I love her for it but my God, it makes it difficult to parent her.
And my son... he's the most handsome little ball of insanity you'll ever witness! If he doesn't wear you down with his I'm-gonna-win-because-I-have-the-power-to-turn-you-to-mush-smile, he is sure to tap dance all over your last damn nerve with his professional flip-the-f*ck-out tactics. He can turn from the ultimate charmer to a demon's spawn quicker than the sassy one can roll her eyes completely around her head.
The boy has mad skills. He could convince Judge Judy that he needs a third cheese stick, and then, like the diva he is, will decide it isn't quite the flavor he was going for. He will then throw the wrapper at his feet and refuse to pick it up. I've left said wrapper on the floor for an entire day and have even withheld food until he decides to pick it up. I cave every time because the terrible 2-year-old would rather go on a hunger strike than do something he just simply doesn't feel like doing. He doesn't win every time, but the score card is currently in his favor.
I never understood why parents let their child stay up past a reasonable bed time. I'd say dumb sh*t like, "I just wouldn't tolerate it." Enter kid number two, who taught me my tolerance level means absolutely squat to a little dude that needs less sleep than his momma on a writer's high.
I was spoiled with my first child. She has always been asleep by 8 at the latest. My little guy, at 2, seems to think he should remain the center of the universe at 10 p.m.. WTF! Doesn't he know that night time is my time? It isn't a matter of not putting him to bed at a reasonable hour; it's a matter of keeping his cute little butt in his bed. That little sucker will continuously come down the stairs, no matter what. He has even gone as far as perfecting the art of holding in a poop until an ungodly hour so he has a valid excuse to get up. Well-played, little man, well-played.
I'm telling you, my children are the reason I had to switch to red wine. White just no longer offered the kind of mind-numbing, patience-aiding effects necessary to make it through cranky hour. Ya know, that time between 4 p.m. and whenever their precious bodies finally decide to give out. How in the hell do people survivor more than two children??? Oh God, that was not a challenge, please sweet Jesus do not take that as a lesson I need to learn!
I love my babies, I really do. And I know I am not the first mother to feel like a total failure because her children don't listen to her and things don't go the way she thinks they should. I'm just in that moment where scratching my eyes out and cutting off my arms at the elbows seems reasonable. That way I won't have to point out the remote they can't find that is right freakin' next to them or make one more freakin' snack because they never. Stop. Eating.
Christmas break couldn't have ended soon enough in my book. If I had to listen to one more ridiculous fight or bake one more set of damn cookies, I might have just strapped on the straight jacket and called it a day.
I'm a mother on the edge and seriously considering looking the other way and letting Darwin's theory play itself out, as they fight over the cheapest, dumbest toy in the house. More than once over the past two weeks I have wanted to click my heels and find myself sitting in a high-powered CEO-worthy leather swivel chair, adorned in the most b*tchin' pink power suit you've ever seen and staring over the skyline of a city that never sleeps. Yes, I admit it, I have dreamed about what it would be like to be childless.
If you read that and believe me to be a terrible mother, then go screw yourself. I'm all tapped out on trying to rank highest on the mother-of-the-year-mom-o-meter that our society seems to judge us all by. I know I'm a good mom and if I didn't admit to being burned out and fed up, well, I'd just crack the f*ck up. At least I have a sense of humor. I often find myself just laughing like a crazy person because if I don't, I know someone will find me in the fetal position, spinning myself in circles and singing Cypress Hill's "Insane in the Membrane."
To all the mothers and fathers that have lost their sh*t more than once recently, I high-five your normal ass. Now, excuse me, I need to go pour myself a big ol' glass of red wine and put the straight jacket on reserve, because I promised the sassy one and her wild little brother they could help me whip up some cookies with the last of the M&Ms that crazy fat bastard put in their stockings. Someone call the funny farm and let them know I'd like a room with a view, please.
