It’s 10 a.m. on a Tuesday morning, the day after MLK, Jr.
day. Not a sound in the house… because my children are still sleeping. That’s because they were up late partying with
their uncle Matt, playing Wii, until Veruca came and woke me at midnight to
announce she was going to bed.
Why Veruca, you
ask? Because I’m changing her name. (As for the late bedtime, you can address
my parenting skills or lack of them, later. Just after you explain to me what a
perfect parent is.)
I actually started a blog post 2 weeks ago about this very
topic… and it looks like this…
~I have decided to rename everyone in the house. Out of
frustration, it’s all I can do to cope with the ridiculousness that is my
house.
I’ll start with the youngest. My daughter will now be known
as Veruca. Little Veruca wants what she wants and she is none too happy when
things don’t go her way. Little Veruca is worse with daddy, which isn’t
“really” funny but in a way I feel like karma has been served up rare and tangy
like my tuna tartare. Veruca doesn’t get away with much here. Plus her evil
stepfather calls her out on her bullshit in a much calmer way (read: not
screaming like a lunatic and foaming at the mouth) than her mother.
This morning she laid in bed until the last minute. We did
an insulin pump set change and after 7 years of pumping you would think that would
go smooth as flan. Not. She will twist herself in a panic over where I’m putting the site, and then
insist the spot isn’t a good one – as if
I have no idea what I’m doing. It is positively maddening. Then she wanted a
sweatshirt that was in the wash, and complained she had “nothing to wear.” Or,
rather – that the sweatshirt was the only one that goes with her outfit.
As I walked out of her room and back to the kitchen, the
door slammed shut. Back down the hall I went, took a deep breath, and reached
for the door handle. She opened it suddenly, and tried to tell me it was “an
accident.” That’s her favorite excuse for missteps these days, like on New Year’s
Eve when I called her and she ended the call telling me that Owen couldn’t come
to the phone right now because “he’s taking a shit.” Oh yes, she did. It was an
accident. I can only guess where she learned the phrase
above – she certainly didn’t hear it here.
Nevertheless, we had a long, one-sided conversation where
she learned that the next time she complains about her clothes not being clean
and/or slams her door at me, she’ll be doing her own laundry. And then I
reiterated that communication (without raising your voice, too) is key to
getting what you need without conflict. Pat me on the back. I know Todd would
be proud. ~
Anyway, I guess I had planned to continue reassigning names,
but I got stuck on#2. I don’t really have many complaints about my firstborn –
other than his inability to say he’s sorry and his annoying habit of
interrupting. Which, for the record, are not meant to be downplayed.
I hate being interrupted. It’s a peeve I’ve had as long as I
can remember – one of the most memorable being my 17th birthday. Every
time I opened my mouth, someone else would start talking. It pissed me off so
much, I just stopped talking. I mean, it was MY birthday and they wouldn’t have
been enjoying this fine dinner on a deck overlooking South Street if it weren’t
for ME. (The only-child syndrome notwithstanding. Which I was, until somebody
decided it was a great idea to give me a brother when I was old enough to be
his mother.) (Did that sound sarcastic and ungrateful? It wasn’t meant to be. I
love my big little brother – and his ability to put away an expensive bottle of
single malt.)
Todd remembers it differently – and snickers as he recalls
how every time my mom went to take a bite of her chicken I’d start clucking
under my breath. I think he’s wrong. I do not remember this at all.
Anyway, the “I’m sorry” issue is a big fish to fry. My son,
at fifteen, will always respond defensively to any accusation and then make
excuses why he did the offensive thing, rather than apologize. His dad is
notorious for placing blame on others, rather than be accountable himself. I
don’t recall the words ever leaving his lips in the 13 years we were married.
As for me, and being always the target of blame, I rarely apologized to him. The reasons may be wrong, but they
are quite clear. To apologize to him meant he was right to blame me, and that
led to more accusations and more opportunities for me to BE wrong.
What O took away from that? You don’t have to say you’re
sorry, there’s always someone or something else to blame, and – especially when
you’re the unfair target of blame – you refuse to be made further wrong. In
dad’s house, he is blamed a lot for Veruca’s reactions. As a young child, he
was chastised for not giving her what she was screaming for. In our house
today, everyone is accountable. However, that doesn’t make the “s” word come
any easier. It’s a work in progress.
The house is quieter these days. Neph has taken his leave
and moved home. I have mixed feelings about it. It was nice to have a “third
child” but he is, in reality, an “adult” with very definite ideas of what he
does and doesn’t want. He is the oldest son in his household, and with that
comes a sense of entitlement that is difficult to grasp at times. He has a
great deal to learn. As do my kids, but I’m hoping to do it with a lot less
drama – God willing. Accountability is high on the list here.
And now, in an effort to keep my posts to roughly no more
than 1,000 words, I leave you with one of my favorite quotes by the late, great
Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
Life’s
most persistent and urgent question is, ‘ what are you doing for others?’
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