For days now, I have been trying to dig myself out of a funk, get motivated and function as a positive, self- assured Mother to my daughters. For days now, they have been trying to crush me like a centipede who got too close to their precious light up Princess sandals.
I think my children got together, conversed for hours and came up with a plan to overthrow management. They decided that if they work hard enough, I will cave and let them have Oreo’s for breakfast, marshmallows for lunch and Popsicles for dinner. That I will allow the television to be on 24/7, bedtime to become obsolete and cleanliness would be optional.
It seems a mutual understanding that fighting is a favorite past time, whining is tolerable as long as they are awake, and sassiness is prelude to a bad attitude. Though they are each others eternal enemies, they are friends in the war against the big bad Mommy that is trying to have some sort of assemblance of a pleasant experience while raising her children.
I mainly blame their plans to gain supremacy on ‘end of summeritis’. The disease that has inflicted this family and refuses to leave. They are bored with the same old water slides, duck pond, and visits to the pool. The colors all run together, the markers are dried out and the paints lost their appeal long ago. Riding bikes still keeps them busy…. for 5 minutes. It is hot outside, after all, and when Katie decides to venture out in jeans, a sweat shirt and boots, she’s bound to be a tad melted in a very short amount of time.
The rest of their plot to kill the Queen is from the simple fact that, over this summer, we have spent entirely too much quality time together. My voice has become a placebo and my threats have become benign. They have wisened to my tricks and turned a blind eye to my consequences.
You would think I would give in… allow them to dictate and rule.
But they don’t know one solid fact. Mama ain’t no fool. And when I decide to do something, I do it! And I have decided to raise these girls to be honorable, confident, respectable women that can get a job, not live with me, but pick up my retirement vacation on demand.
Is that wrong? That I expect that? Didn’t think so.
So I continue to fight. But I have to be creative. The same old stuff does not work on a bored mob.
And my weapon of choice today?
I decided after talking to a good friend – and by talking I mean continually throwing the phone down to deal with a child and forgetting what I was saying by the time I got back – that if I had to deal with the kids asking me 80 times for something, I could repeat instructions to them 100 times.
So, during another phone call, I headed off Katie’s demand of “Dragon Tails again” with “I am on the phone.”
“I am on the phone.”
“I am on the phone.”
And on it went, much to my callers entertainment until Katie one upped me, smacked her little sister in the head, thus landing her hiney squarely on the floor of her room.
The hit induced another new and exciting round of Sarah whines for everything on the planet.
“Mwaaamwaaaa…. Katie hit meeeeeee.”
“Sarah, I know, stop whining.”
“Mwaaaamwaaaaa…. Katie fight.”
“I know baby, please stop whining.”
“Mwaaamwaaaaa…. Katie hit me on da heaadddd.”
“Sarah, you are fine. Stop whining.”
And on we went until Sarah walked up to me, dug her little sharp, toddler nails into my leg and scratched as hard as she could.
This landed her derriere flat on the floor in her room.
I come back out, close the doors to the dual operetta screaming that one day, I will never miss, and headed back to the phone.
Megan comes toddling over, hands outstretched, grunting for a pick up.
I pick her up.
I tell her that one day I am not going to be able to pick her up lest I create a daughter that gets what she wants the minute she asks for it.
And I repeat to myself for the millionth time that I will never let that happen.