The 9 year old is in her room, crying and stomping because she had to finish her math homework. She spent dinner making us all glad she has vocal chords by loudly protesting how rotten math is and how much she hates it. When she finished, she slammed her pencil down on the table, screamed at the top of her lungs, “There! I’m done because I can’t think of anything else!” and proceeded to run up to her room and slam the door.
I love being a mother.
The 3 year old cut her own hair. I tried to even it out, but there’s only so even you can get with “bald spot”. Of course, she’s completely nonplussed that she had scissors privileges taken away. When I remind her that she can’t use them because she cut her own hair, she screams at me. The 6 year old hurries to get her whatever she wants, which is how the monster was created in the first place.
The 6 year old smells bad. She has the stinkiest feet in our house, which is no small accomplishment. It’s worse when she doesn’t wear socks, so I frequently ask her to put socks on, especially when she’ll be in small spaces, such as anywhere inside. And do you think she cheerfully puts them on while saying, “I realize my foot odor is offensive. I will strive to remember to wash my feet and wear socks. Thank you for letting me know, darling Mumsey.”
No. She tells me I’m a horrible person. If she knew how to curse, she would. Wait until she’s a teenager and I refuse to let her drive my car. I’m so excited for those conversations.
I see the commercials with families sitting around the table, playing games or eating popcorn, and I wonder why those moments in my home seem overshadowed by the anger that comes from small things. I wonder if I should let my oldest fail math so she feels she has control over her own learning. I wonder if the 3 year old will mellow out. I wonder if I should talk to the Pediatrician about the 6 year old’s smelliness. I wonder if we’ll ever laugh over these slights, or if they (or I) will continue to hold a grudge for all the times we lost our tempers.