It’s not abnormal for us as parents to want our children to be perfect; the best at everything! We want them to be the best, the brightest, the smartest, the sweetest- we want it all! We should never expect it, but it’s okay to dream.
We teach them, we try to keep them on the right path, we read to them, we help them when they ask- we even do things we find to be painfully boring or irritating just because they asked and it’s a great opportunity to introduce them to new things because new things are good.
We want the best for them because we love them so much and don’t want them to have to struggle once they are thrust out into the real world and have to find a job to be able to pay for all of the things they need. We know how much of a whore that can be because we’ve been there.
We cheer them when they do well, and we get frustrated when they don’t (even though we try to hide it,) we laugh with them and cry with them; we helicopter the shit out of them to prevent booboos. but kiss them when they happen. They always happen.
A parent’s job is a hard one. You used to only have to worry about yourself, and now you have a tiny innocent human to worry about because you know they don’t know how to worry on their own. As stressful as that can be, you consider it to be a good thing.
Then comes the moment that makes all parents cringe. The moment isn’t just one moment, though, this kind of crap happens all the time and leaves you scratching your head wondering where it all went wrong.
During the week, breakfast in my house usually consists of the choices between a regular selection of staples. You can choose cereal, a waffle, or oatmeal. Always with milk. That one isn’t negotiable. One might think that gets boring after a while. One would be right. Once the weekends are upon us, we go all out with breakfast. Bacon & Eggs. French Toast. Pancakes from scratch, shit on a shingle (and if you don’t know what that is, look it up and make it immediately! You won’t regret it)- with a choice of milk or juice. we love weekend breakfasts. I’m super anal about the boys getting enough milk and water in a day- so even though they ALWAYS choose juice on the weekends, I’ll put a cup of milk out beside it. Always in a white plastic cup with a lid. Blah blah, they should be old enough to drink without a straw, blah blah. You try cleaning up milk from the floor for the billionth time and then tell me you don’t put a lid on that shit. Milk’s expensive. Lids save me money. I like money. Boom.
About halfway into breakfast, Parker noticed what a big deal Holden was making over how amazing the grape juice was and insisted on having a sip. I grabbed the cup and handed it to him. Immediately, he took a long sip from the straw and happily said “mmmmmm! Dat’s gooooo!!!” and that’s when I hear Holden started to snort out “That’s not my juice, you silly! That’s my cup of MILK!”
We all laughed until we couldn’t breathe, and that child just sat there, confused. Probably still convinced that what he just drank was not something he drinks FIVE TIMES PER DAY, but grape juice.
Take palm, slap to forehead. Repeat.
Even an infant knows the difference when they’re sipping milk and you give them something else. It’s written all over their faces! Not Parker.
Ohhhhhh, Parker. Did you hit your head this morning? That was not a smart moment.
That kid is going places.
I know the truth to be that all little kids are equal parts moron and genius, and eventually, MOST of them grow out of the moron part… at least partially… but it doesn’t mean I don’t sit here occasionally wondering whether or not the missing glue stick ended up in his stomach or if I ate bad tuna while I was pregnant.
Yeah, I ate tuna. THE HEART WANTS WHAT THE HEART WANTS!
The heart also wants little precious to be able to tell the difference between milk and grape juice so that he can go on to win a Nobel Prize. Make mama proud!!!
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