|Sam has also discovered SELFIES.|
And here I am with all of the above (plus a betta fish that we traded for the four hermit crabs because one of those suckers pinched me and after that it was all over).
Tonight I said what may take the cake in terms of parenting quotes. And I don’t say that lightly, because I have had my share of “we don’t eat our boogers because they are too high in sodium” moments.
I should preface this with an explanation that Sam has been difficult lately. And not difficult in an eating boogers sort of way … much more than that.
He is emotional. He is hostile. He is unreasonable. He is mad because he cannot hold all of his Pokemon cards in one hand. (He also cannot hold all of his Pokemon cards in TWO hands, but he does NOT want a Ziploc bag or a rubber band!) He is upset because he doesn’t understand his immense pile of Pokemon cards and their various damage levels. He is pretty angry just in general. He is also offended that he cannot eat donuts and Cheetohs (Cheethos? Cheetos?) for every meal.
Additionally, he pretty frequently gets in trouble at school. And now -- per my request -- I’m getting phone calls instead of notes-home-in-his-lunchbox about this behavior.
Phone calls at work.
So, things aren’t smooth right now. They could be much worse, I know. And I seriously thank God and Jesus and Mary and Joseph and John the Baptist (and sometimes even Elijah and Moses) every night because I know that hidden underneath my delusion of difficulty is the reality that my life is pretty smooth overall. Maybe even easy. (Although if you repeat that to anyone, I will punch you in the throat.)
Tonight I said, and I quote (obviously): “Do NOT wipe your nose with the crotch of your dirty underwear!”
Should I just go ahead and ask for help, or wait until someone offers?
What would I even say at a support group meeting? Hello. My name is Kimberly, and my child actually took off his dirty underwear and used it to wipe his snotty nose.
Feel sorry for me.
What is the point of all this anyway? This parenting nonsense is making me take pride in such ridiculous things as successfully painting all of my fingernails purple except the ring finger, which I painted turquoise. Because somebody told me that was the new thing. And it is sorta pretty in a non-symmetrical kinda way.
What am I supposed to do with these difficult children that I’ve had? I think they’ve finally outgrown the fire-station drop off threat, so now we’re accepting real serious proposals.
Some days I think: It’s them or me. I can’t hear another fake fart or senseless nonsensical babble that ends in “face” (e.g., Mamaface, Peepeeface, Johnface, Stupidface, etc.). It makes me want to peel away my epidermis (let’s face it, cuticles are an ORGAN! Part of the biggest organ in our bodies – the skin! This is way seriouser than anyone acknowledges.)
But I can’t just sit around peeling. Because I’m.The.Mama. And Mamas have to be more mature and responsible than their children. (I know, right? Who made up that crap?) I’m always stuck with this feeling that even when Mamas feel that neither the mature nor the responsible trait has ever existed naturally in their DNA, they must still strive.
And so I’m writing this to console myself. I’m writing this to say that I know I need to … I’m sorry, can we please do away with the phrase “Man up”? I think “Mama up” gets more to the spirit of the idiom.
And now, I’m off to Mama Up. (Which likely includes lying down.)