Bad Mom

I haven’t seen the movie yet, but I am a mean mom. Maybe a bad mom too. Probably.  Even this blog has four drafts sitting in it where I compile something sweet about my kids.

But the truth is, at the current moment I hate them.

My oldest spends his time on various video games or biking with friends. And then complains that the cat has pooped on his pillow.  By the way, since it’s his cat the cat boxes are his chore.  Das Booty and I slunk our way downstairs with my new one-handed laundry basket to wash sheets and I checked them.  

There was mold on the cat poop in the litter box.  So next time he tells me “yeah, I scooped the cat boxes” I’m calling absolute bullshit on that.  I’m glad the cat pooped there and I think he needs to use the allowance money he’s clearly not earning by snarling a “fine” to rotating the dishwasher only to put dirty dishes in the cupboard.  It’s a dishwasher!  It does the work for you!  I was his age washing dishes with a scouring pad and a sink full of Dawn dish soap.  You usually had to drain the sink because the water got cold mid-wash or oily.  Yet, my kid can’t be bothered to put the dishes away and set the dirty ones in a rack that you unwrap a soap pellet and push a button? 

My middle daughter doesn’t have many words to begin with.  But lately they have all been forgotten for the scream.  Or should I say scream(s).  The “do not go near me” scream, the “I want that right now” scream, the “no, I mean McDonalds-see right there where I’m pointing” scream, the “I don’t want to ride in the child seat I want to sit in the basket so you have no room to shop” scream, the “I won’t hold your hand in the parking lot” scream, the “I’ll go outside when I choose without telling you, what do you mean that’s not okay” scream, the “not this song” scream.  Even when she’s happy she’s screaming.  She’s swinging her heart out in our backyard.  Still screaming.

My ears hurt.  Redirection no longer works.  My voice seems to make no difference.  If I had a mute button I would make sure that I left that station on mute.  

And then the youngest.  My sucubus.  The little girl who refuses to be quiet and will continue to scream at  me “mom!  I said I saw a blue car!” unless she hears my acknowledgement of this amazing piece of knowledge I have no idea how I survived without.  Forget sitting.  She’s on my lap, climbing on my boot or snuggling up to my shoulder.  Cute, yes, but when you hear “mom! Arm!” because I’m not snuggling right I’m done. 

So, yes, I’m sorry dear children, but mommy doesn’t want to hear “it was my turn!” or “but I wanted to hug you!” I don’t want to hear you scream and I think anyone who throws his bread crusts on his bedroom floor deserves to have the cat pee on his pillow.

But I’ll probably love you again in five minutes.  Or twenty four hours.  It all depends on you.