“You did what you knew how to do, and when you knew better, you did better.”
- Maya Angelou
The trouble comes when we know better but we don’t do better anyway. That’s just being contrary. That’s just being stubborn. Perhaps even a bit narcissistic? That’s a parent’s worst frustration - when you know your kids know they could and should do better, but don’t. When this happens, I try to calm my inner-nag with monk-like chants that I have done all I can, it’s up to them now; they must learn from their own mistakes. I breathe deep, I walk out of the room, feeling I have become enlightened enough to have conquered the combustible moment with the wisdom of a Zen teacher. Afterall, it’s just dirty muddy socks…with the muddy cleats…and discarded wrapper of Oreo Cakesters – not a huge thing in the larger scheme of Life. She probably was being considerate about the mud and didn’t want to track it into the house…what a dear…as I see her sitting…on…the…couch…remote in hand…and eating those $%#& Oreo Cakesters and getting…crumbs…ALL OVER THE COUCH. All is suddenly not well in my happy place. I feel the fire in my belly. Oh, II heard it. I heard it loud and clear - the voice inside my head warning myself “Uh oh, she’s gonna yell! Don’t do it…don’t you do it…” But I did it. I yelled. I stood high atop my soapbox, finger jabbing the air like a desperate politician. “I am not the maid! You’re old enough now to pick up after yourself! What do you think this, is a hotel?! It’s all about the play and not about the work! Who drove you to those soccer games anyway? Who washed your uniform? Like I have nothing better to do on a Saturday after a hard week of work (don’t answer that!) We’re a team here, just like on your soccer team and I’M the coach! Time for you to start pulling your weight around here! If I see one more dirty sock left out…that’s it, you’re grounded, Sister…right after the pizza gets here!”
A little background…
It’s Saturday afternoon – a day filled with soccer games, each game 40 minutes away in opposite directions with just enough lag time in between to warm up and stop for lunch. Winter decides to have one last blast so it’s cold, raining and I’m sick of it. Not that I was complaining...okay, yes, actually, I was. Anyone got a violin?
The day goes on, we survive two lost soccer games and bad burritos. It’s 4:30 when we finally get home and the Kitchen Fairy did not flutter by. The morning’s dishes are still in the sink, egg yolks hardened, Cheerios mushy, the margarine all soft & soupy, that 3rd cup of coffee I meant to have and, yet another, unread newspaper. We walk in the door, the dog is jonesin’ to get out and the girls moan they are too cold, sore and muddy to take him for a walk. It’s 40 degrees and raining, I haven’t peed all day when the dog makes a beeline for the open front door and WHOOSH! He lets out a demanding bark for the Chuck-it & tennis balls. That’s when I first felt my insides tighten. The sherpa that every mom becomes, I heave a pile of necessary whatevers onto the front entrance floor and go let the dog get his wiggles out. I instruct the girls not to walk through the house with their muddy cleats & socks, hit the showers and please hang their wet towels & put their dirty uniforms in the laundry. Not rocket science, right?
After about 30 minutes I come back in, because it's begun to HAIL. I'm SO ready for some hot tea and a shower. And there my dears are, sitting on the couch all fresh & clean with cozy sweats, the fire on and a nice warm cup of hot chocolate watching a favorite episode of our animated family member SpongeBob. My heart is warmed. They had a good day. As I pass through the house I notice the muddy socks and cleats discarded and abandoned where I promptly trip over them. My jaw tightens and I feel myself trying to keep control of the nagging beast within me (I’d use a different b-word here, but I’ll keep it clean.) I make my way upstairs surveying the piles of laundry longing to be washed, my unmade bed and, naturally, a mountain of wet towels on the bathroom floor, on the bed – everywhere but hung on the rack. I go into high denial. Don’t want to think about it, just want a step into the shower and...no hot water. I smile at my own stupidity - should have known that after the girls took their showers to have waited an hour for the water heater to warm up. And then, as I stand there freezing in a tepid shower, which is actually making me colder, I hear the strained voices from 2 flights downstairs saying “MOM! What’s for dinner?”
An innocent enough question after a day of sports, right? And what was a warm simmer of a self-pitying “you gotta be kidding” went to full tilt-boogie diatribe.
I hear myself blah blah blahing away from 2 flights away from any eye contact. THAT'S effective. I’m standing there wrapped in a towel, goose-bumpy skin using all the wrong language and I know it. I even threw in a couple of swear words for emphasis. And I’m expecting to be taken seriously? I’m cursing myself as I spew forth my venom because what I want to say is what Dr. Christiane Northrup so eloquently said that inner discipline and will are strengthened first by learning how to follow external rules & regulations. Because a disciplined will is necessary to carry out regular self-care routines such as chores and exercising even when you’d rather not. Because, ultimately, I’m on your side and I want you to do better than me. I see that now as they fast approach puberty they are taking every chance they get to push the envelope of parental authority. And now I must assume my role as authority greater than I ever have in order to maintain clear guidelines about right and wrong.
I come downstairs and there they are on the couch looking at me like I’m an alien. I suppose that was fair.
But…
GET YOUR DIRTY SOCKS OFF THE FLOOR!!!
- Maya Angelou
The trouble comes when we know better but we don’t do better anyway. That’s just being contrary. That’s just being stubborn. Perhaps even a bit narcissistic? That’s a parent’s worst frustration - when you know your kids know they could and should do better, but don’t. When this happens, I try to calm my inner-nag with monk-like chants that I have done all I can, it’s up to them now; they must learn from their own mistakes. I breathe deep, I walk out of the room, feeling I have become enlightened enough to have conquered the combustible moment with the wisdom of a Zen teacher. Afterall, it’s just dirty muddy socks…with the muddy cleats…and discarded wrapper of Oreo Cakesters – not a huge thing in the larger scheme of Life. She probably was being considerate about the mud and didn’t want to track it into the house…what a dear…as I see her sitting…on…the…couch…remote in hand…and eating those $%#& Oreo Cakesters and getting…crumbs…ALL OVER THE COUCH. All is suddenly not well in my happy place. I feel the fire in my belly. Oh, II heard it. I heard it loud and clear - the voice inside my head warning myself “Uh oh, she’s gonna yell! Don’t do it…don’t you do it…” But I did it. I yelled. I stood high atop my soapbox, finger jabbing the air like a desperate politician. “I am not the maid! You’re old enough now to pick up after yourself! What do you think this, is a hotel?! It’s all about the play and not about the work! Who drove you to those soccer games anyway? Who washed your uniform? Like I have nothing better to do on a Saturday after a hard week of work (don’t answer that!) We’re a team here, just like on your soccer team and I’M the coach! Time for you to start pulling your weight around here! If I see one more dirty sock left out…that’s it, you’re grounded, Sister…right after the pizza gets here!”
A little background…
It’s Saturday afternoon – a day filled with soccer games, each game 40 minutes away in opposite directions with just enough lag time in between to warm up and stop for lunch. Winter decides to have one last blast so it’s cold, raining and I’m sick of it. Not that I was complaining...okay, yes, actually, I was. Anyone got a violin?
The day goes on, we survive two lost soccer games and bad burritos. It’s 4:30 when we finally get home and the Kitchen Fairy did not flutter by. The morning’s dishes are still in the sink, egg yolks hardened, Cheerios mushy, the margarine all soft & soupy, that 3rd cup of coffee I meant to have and, yet another, unread newspaper. We walk in the door, the dog is jonesin’ to get out and the girls moan they are too cold, sore and muddy to take him for a walk. It’s 40 degrees and raining, I haven’t peed all day when the dog makes a beeline for the open front door and WHOOSH! He lets out a demanding bark for the Chuck-it & tennis balls. That’s when I first felt my insides tighten. The sherpa that every mom becomes, I heave a pile of necessary whatevers onto the front entrance floor and go let the dog get his wiggles out. I instruct the girls not to walk through the house with their muddy cleats & socks, hit the showers and please hang their wet towels & put their dirty uniforms in the laundry. Not rocket science, right?
After about 30 minutes I come back in, because it's begun to HAIL. I'm SO ready for some hot tea and a shower. And there my dears are, sitting on the couch all fresh & clean with cozy sweats, the fire on and a nice warm cup of hot chocolate watching a favorite episode of our animated family member SpongeBob. My heart is warmed. They had a good day. As I pass through the house I notice the muddy socks and cleats discarded and abandoned where I promptly trip over them. My jaw tightens and I feel myself trying to keep control of the nagging beast within me (I’d use a different b-word here, but I’ll keep it clean.) I make my way upstairs surveying the piles of laundry longing to be washed, my unmade bed and, naturally, a mountain of wet towels on the bathroom floor, on the bed – everywhere but hung on the rack. I go into high denial. Don’t want to think about it, just want a step into the shower and...no hot water. I smile at my own stupidity - should have known that after the girls took their showers to have waited an hour for the water heater to warm up. And then, as I stand there freezing in a tepid shower, which is actually making me colder, I hear the strained voices from 2 flights downstairs saying “MOM! What’s for dinner?”
An innocent enough question after a day of sports, right? And what was a warm simmer of a self-pitying “you gotta be kidding” went to full tilt-boogie diatribe.
I hear myself blah blah blahing away from 2 flights away from any eye contact. THAT'S effective. I’m standing there wrapped in a towel, goose-bumpy skin using all the wrong language and I know it. I even threw in a couple of swear words for emphasis. And I’m expecting to be taken seriously? I’m cursing myself as I spew forth my venom because what I want to say is what Dr. Christiane Northrup so eloquently said that inner discipline and will are strengthened first by learning how to follow external rules & regulations. Because a disciplined will is necessary to carry out regular self-care routines such as chores and exercising even when you’d rather not. Because, ultimately, I’m on your side and I want you to do better than me. I see that now as they fast approach puberty they are taking every chance they get to push the envelope of parental authority. And now I must assume my role as authority greater than I ever have in order to maintain clear guidelines about right and wrong.
I come downstairs and there they are on the couch looking at me like I’m an alien. I suppose that was fair.
But…
GET YOUR DIRTY SOCKS OFF THE FLOOR!!!
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