“That’s not fair! Why does HE get to and IIIIIII don’t?”
I swear, if I never hear that phrase again it will be too soon. As many times as you explain that life isn’t always fair and whining will get them nowhere, kids don’t listen. I hate whining. I love my kids, but I HATE whining. Thing about love, though, is it helps you look past the annoyances. I suppose it helps that I’m constantly reminded that this won’t last forever, and pretty soon it will go from whining about fairness over the size of cookies or who gets to go first during a game or who has more cereal in their bowl, and turn into whining because they don’t want to be seen in public with dear ol’ mom.
Aside from the whining, I have to admit- my kids are my best friends. NOT in the way where I just want to be the cool mom so I don’t enforce any rules just to be seen as awesome and laid back. No way. I’m still mean mommy. We’re best friends in a sense that we can completely be ourselves around each other. We can say anything, be disgusting, look disgusting, feel disgusting. There’s no judgment. A lot of EW FUCKING GROSS, but no judgment. We can laugh about stupid things, say stupid things. It doesn’t matter. We just have a grand time.
I love the shit out of those kids, even if they do drive me up the wall.
But the WHINING. I just can’t get past it. Sometimes it’s so bad that I sit back and wonder if my kids even like me. WHY would they torture me with this sound that is only surpassed by nails on a chalkboard if they liked me?? They’re so excited to see their dad come home in the evening, but they just act like little shits to me all day long (on the crappy days). Sometimes I wonder, if they really don’t like me as much as I like them, what the hell is it going to be like when they’re older? I look at Holden, who is 6, and in school making his own friends and learning things I didn’t teach him- and I know this change is going to happen SOON. The older he gets, the more I can feel it looming.
Drop me off a block from school, mom
You’re embarrassing me, mom
Be quiet, mom!
Not in public, mom!
I’m not a baby anymore, mom!
Mom! Go away!
A few weeks ago, a plague ran through our house. Brought home by Holden and within a week, it proceeded to strategically pick each of us off. I wasn’t feeling too bad; no fever, just a nasty cough and a lot of snot. I actually thought it was on its way out until I took the dogs out back one afternoon. The moment I stepped back in the house, it felt like I got smacked in the head by a semi-truck. Nauseous, sweating, head pounding. I stumbled over to the couch where Holden was sitting and collapsed onto it and then curled up into the fetal position. I was a hot ass mess! I had NO damn idea what was going on, but I knew I was not moving from that spot on the couch. I couldn’t!
Not long after lying down, I started getting cold. I don’t do cold. I’m sure Thomas is not going to be pleased about this month’s heating bill- but I HATE being cold and try to avoid it at all costs. I’m like frickin’ Big Foot. You might see a glimpse of me, but you’ll never catch my ass outside in the winter season. I keep the heat in our house on HIGH, and that day, I was shivering. Without a word, Holden got up, got a blanket, and covered me. When he noticed my feet were still sticking out, he got me another blanket and covered those, too. Then he gave me a stuffed animal, wedged himself onto the couch (comfortably!) and snuggled with me. Turned out I was spiking a serious fever; one that I’m sure would have been worse had it not been for Holden taking care of me.
When the (nearly inevitable) moment comes where Holden is complaining that I’m embarrassing, annoying, nagging, or mean- I’ll remember the moment he took care of me and know that deep down, when no one’s looking, he loves the shit out of me too.
In parenthood, we learn to find joy in the little things. The little moments. And we learn to carry them with us so that in not so great moments of being peed, pooped, barfed on or yelled at, we don’t resort to the measures of the other species on earth and eat our young.
This was mine. What’s yours?