“Why didn’t you wash my white sweater? It was dirty!” 8 year old yells at me.
“Because it wasn’t in the dirty clothes when I did the wash.”
“It’s in the dirty clothes now!”
“Yes, but I did the wash on Monday. On Monday, it was not in the dirty clothes.”
“But it was dirty then!”
“Ah, but was it in the dirty clothes bin?”
Stomp, stomp, stomp. She huffs her way downstairs, complaining loudly, of course.
I head down to my computer to tell you all how wonderful post-Christmas break is.
I hear Rule-Making Oldest Daughter screaming at Youngest Daughter. “You can’t play your DS right now! Put it away immediately!”
Youngest Daughter cannot possibly withstand the wrath of 11-year-old. She’s crying, and trying valiantly to finish the game on the DS so she can put it away before her beloved sister turns into Medusa.
I step in. “Oldest Child, why can’t she play her DS?” I ask.
“Because we’re not allowed to do that right now!”
I look at her and tell her the same thing I’ve been saying for years, and which, to my knowledge, has had no quantifiable impact on her actions. “It is not your job. It is my job.”
She huffs her way into her bedroom, complaining loudly, of course.
2 children down, 2 to go.
I love Christmas break pre-December 25. This year, I’ve done my best to improve the post-Christmas I-Hate-Your-Guts phase. Monday, we went swimming, with Oldest Daughter taking Weird Friend Number 4 to pacify her. Tuesday, Youngest Daughter had 2 playdates, one of which took her to McDonald’s and the park, and both of which took her out of the my-older-sisters-won’t-play-with-me blues. Middle Daughter had a friend over for 3 1/2 hours. Oldest Daughter spent the day re-grouping, reading, lying in bed. No pressure, no requirements for good behavior. Today, after a last-minutes sleep over at our house with Oldest Daughter’s Weird Friend Number 6, Oldest Daughter, Middle Daughter and Youngest Daughter are all going ice skating. With me. Oldest Daughter is taking a friend. Middle Daughter is taking a friend. I’m taking Valium. I hate ice skating. I hate going around and around a frozen rink with 25 other stupid people, none of us being able to do more than hang onto the wall and pray that our tender bottoms don’t fall on our skates. Except, there’s always that one show-off who wanted to be a professional skater but wasn’t quite cut out for it. You know who I’m talking about. It’s the female equivalent of the gym jocks in High School. Not good enough for the team, but too good for you, losers.
So, I’m just looking for a reason to cancel the whole thing and ground everyone to her room. Me included. I would love to crawl back into my flannel jammies and spend the day snuggling Too Busy Son while he tries to pull everything out of the cupboards.
But that isn’t to be. Another day spent staring at each other in the house may actually ignite the flames which are already threatening. Instead, we’ll go get sore and tired and come home to leftover for dinner, which makes me happy but will cause more “you’re the worst mom ever” moments. That’s alright. Eventually, they’ll go away to college and then they’ll be someone else’s problem.