Sure, I am an experienced mother of two, and feel relatively secure as a parent, but no matter what, I remain a very flawed human. I’ve lost my shit multiple times.
Motherhood can be overwhelming and sometimes the stress and uncertainty can bring out my absolute worst qualities.
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Despite the humbling nature of admitting the un-admittable, the truth is, we are all in this together. If I ever want to celebrate our best days, I have to laugh at my worst (and cross my fingers that you are laughing, too.)
So, here are My Top Five Times I’ve Lost My Shit with My Kids
I taught them some new lessons – about laundry
I’m a relatively simple women with a pretty uncomplicated desire for a few basic things in life. I don’t ask for much and make no apologies for reminding my children of this fact often.
Despite my easy-going nature, I sometimes have to host hands-on demonstrations to show them the proper way to do things, such as opening a cereal box, replacing the toilet paper roll, or turning clothes right side out before they are thrown into the hamper.
And yet, to my great dismay, it’s like they never even looked at the power point slides.
I quickly figured out that there’s only one way to get their attention. A few weeks ago I decided to stop undoing the dirty socks and wash them as-is. I stifled my maniacal giggles and threw a shady glance their way when I heard the complaints of damp socks on a Monday morning.
I lost my shit and cancelled Halloween one year
One year in the not too distant past, my kids complained about the hot-dog mummies I made for dinner before trick-or-treating so I logically declared Halloween was cancelled.
I kept a gift meant for my kid
When my daughter was young I traveled for work and in an attempt to make sure she didn’t forget me, I called several times a day and had a video chat each night. She certainly didn’t forget me. In fact, I think she had a hard time forgetting the fact that I left her in the first place.
I had such unrealistically high expectations for the day I arrived home. My eyes filled with tears when I saw my husband and precious baby waiting for me at the airport. I was so excited to be home and reunite with my child that I didn’t immediately notice the icy reception.
I was a relatively new mother so I took it personally. Very personally.
She didn’t want to sit by me and she definitely didn’t want to snuggle with me. She didn’t want me to bathe her and she was totally uninterested in the gifts I brought home for her. I may have been older but I wasn’t about to act that way. Two can play this game. She didn’t want me to bathe her so I left the bathroom. She didn’t want to sit with me so I got up to unpack my bags.
She wasn’t interested in the stuffed panda bear and socks I excitedly brought home, well, the socks happen to fit me, too.
It’s hard to tell which one is the two-year-old, I know. If I recall, the panda bear was actually thrown at me. She threw the bear, so I threw shade. It was the only logical response. I wore the panda socks for the rest of the evening.
I lost my shit when she wouldn’t let me give her medicine
Please take note: Molluscum Contagiosum is a royal pain in the parenting ass. Parents, I beg you, if your child has this condition, do not let your child swim, bathe, share a donut, or even talk on the phone with anyone, not a single other human being until the condition is completely gone.
It is so highly contagious and a generally messy ordeal.
Both of my kids had it and it’s the skin infection version of herding cats. You treat one area, then a new one pops up. You think you have it contained then the universe clearly tells you that you are managing a hopeless, helpless situation.
I had to treat one of the bumps and she didn’t want me to touch it. I was over her fear and worry about the damn thing and I just wanted to get the medicine and be done with it.
It was late. I had reached my limit. We had done this a zillion times before. At her last tear-filled sob that she was afraid it might hurt (which it wouldn’t), I blurted out, “Well fine, then. Let them spread all over your little body.”
They complained about my cooking – and I let them eat cake
Let me start by creating a visual for you:
I’m wearing a set of flannel, black and white toile pajamas (with pink trim), collar up of course. My short hair is pushed back with one of my daughter’s pink, yellow, and green floral stretchy headbands so most of it is sticking straight up. I have a black spatula in my right hand.
My left, if I remember correctly is waiving wildly in the air.
“Fine, then don’t eat. Go hungry! Better yet, go right into the kitchen and help yourself to whatever your little heart desires. Have cookies! Have Doritos for breakfast! Go right ahead; I truly don’t care anymore.”
My parenting error? I made pancakes from scratch. I found this delish recipe that consisted of whole wheat flour, oats, honey, and buttermilk. Yes, that’s right, I made my own fucking buttermilk. They were crusty golden brown and as delicious as expected.
I have never heard so much unfounded complaining in my life. I was informed that they looked too lumpy, they felt funny when picked up with the fork, and yes, there was a concern that they weren’t cooked long enough. I thought I would roll my eyeballs right out of my head. Cue the wildly waving spatula.
Yes indeed, the highlights of my finer moments of motherhood, right here in black and white for all of you to see.
The hard truth is, my kids are actually pretty great. They are easy going, happy children whom I generally love being around.
So, thinking about that, and reflecting on this list tells me one of two things: either I am a total asshole, or even when kids are really easy, parenting is still pretty damn hard.
This post originally appeared on Mom Cave TV