I used to really like kids. Oh, and BABIES! I adored babies!
I was in absolute awe of their ability to soak up information and enthralled with the physiological processes happening as they were learning and growing. I loved the honesty of their innocence, lack of inhibition and the wonder they exuded at each new experience. I envied their emotional freedom.
Now...not so much. I look at an early human and see work.
We were at Yogurt Garden (frozen yogurt shop here in Natomas) a few days ago and I saw a family with five kids. Each child about a year-and-a-half older than the next. You could tell they had all the those kids on purpose! I couldn't stop staring. I was a little creeped out. What were they thinking?
I feel like a jerk for admitting that, but it is the truth. Which brings me to another truth. Sometimes, I wish my kids weren't so eager to be independent and so darn clever. I know that sounds awful. I should be grateful, yada yada, they are not delayed or disabled, and truly I am. What I mean is, I just wish most of my interactions with them didn't feel like a mental combination of The Amazing Race (without directions) and Wipeout (without a helmet).
Simple tasks are such chores now. Can I NOT just pour the milk? Must I have a small person questioning, demanding, critiquing and whining over it? Must we top off that glass with an emotional melt-down?
Daughter: I'm thirsty. I wanna drink.
Me: How do you ask nicely?
Daughter: (head tilted with a baby voice) Puwheeeeees mah-mah.
Me: You may drink water, juice or regular milk.
Daughter: I want chocolate milk.
Me: That is not a choice.
Daughter: But I saw it in the fridge.
Me: Yes, it is, but that's not a choice right now.
Daughter: Well, then can I have strawberry?
Me: (getting annoyed) No, that is not a choice. You may have regular milk.
Daughter: That's not fair! (Jumping up and down) C'mon Mom. C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, please, please, please, please!
Me: (face getting hot) No.
Daughter (whining): Well, can I pour the milk?
Me: No.
Daughter: (more whining) Why?
Me: (taking a breath) It's too big, you will spill it.
Daughter: (excruciating tone) No I woooooooooooooon't, please, please, pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease can I pour it?
Me: (can I pour it over your head?) Look at this container! You will not even be able to lift it!
Daughter: (more whining and angry sounds, hands balled into little fists, yelling) I WANNNA POUR IT!
Me: (through gritted teeth)You may drink the milk I pour or have none.
Daughter: (completely matter-of-fact now, like duh) You just have to pour it into a smaller cup and give it to me. Then I can pour it into my own cup.
Me: (think fast, think fast!) UGH! She is right. Am I an awful parent if I don't use this teachable moment and let my child have a new experience? Am I really in THAT much of a hurry? But I am so very tired and she is just going to spill it everywhere. I already have a bazillion things to do, I don't need another mess to clean up. I just want to pour this milk and move on to whatever the next tedious parenting task will be.
Me: (pouring milk) No.
Daughter: (wailing now, mouth open, purposely letting saliva drip out) Waaahhhh, WAAAAHHHHH, but I wanna pour the milk. Waaaahhhaahh, I wanna do it, I wanna do it!
Me: (with daggers in my eyes) You have a choice. Drink this milk I poured or have NONE.
Daughter (stomping off, wailing): I don't want it and I'm not gonna be your friend anymore.
Me: (I won!) Fine, but go have that fit in your room so I don't have to hear it.
I revel in my precious moments of victory. I was strong! I did not give in! I have once again established my authority as the parent! I walked my talk!
Daughter: (a few minutes later) Mommy, I'm thirsty.
Me: (siiiiiigggghhhh) You may drink the milk in your cup.
Daughter: No, I want water.
Me: (if I close my eyes, can I just disappear?) You already asked me for milk.
Daughter: But I can turn the water on by myself.
Me: (systems reaching critical) You cannot reach the sink in here.
Daughter: But I can bring out my stool from the bathroom. Then I can reach it!
Me: (crying inside)
How did serving become so much easier than teaching? Oh, and the inevitable emotional breakdown? Of course, I was referring to myself.
