(Me, peeking out from under a blanket) Is it Saturday yet?
You guys, I almost didn’t make it.
Recently, my husband was in California for a work thing, leaving me at home — alone — with a 7 and 3-year-old.
It was the longest 10 days of my life.
I was out-numbered, out-gunned and out-witted at every turn, proving to the world that my kids are not only masters at manipulation, they will put aside their differences to band together against common enemies such as vegetables, bath time and (especially) bed time.
This wasn’t necessarily a new thing, he’s traveled for work before — but never for this amount of time and not when the kids were this age. Believe it or not, it was easier when they were babies.
Ben, my oldest son, has reached an age where he seems to think he can order people around, especially his little brother. Sam, the younger of the two, doesn’t take to kindly to this and at nearly four now, believes his opinions (on ALL matters) are the only ones that count.
They’re pushing boundaries, testing limits and — much to my chagrin — experimenting with “no.” Somehow, without me realizing it, they have grown from my sweet, cuddly babies into independent, free thinking, rough and tumble boys.
I suppose it was bound to happen.
I’ve found that much of parenting is walking a line, finding a balance, if you will: I want them to think for themselves. I want them to be self sufficient, functioning adults. I want them to question things and challenge authority — just not my authority.
After all, I’m the Mom.
As I write this, I can’t help but feel that it’s not my words and feelings being typed to this page — but my mother’s. Surely she must have gone through the same things with my brothers and I that I’m encountering now, right?
Well, if it’s some sort of “parenting rite of passage,” I can’t help but feel like I’m failing miserably.
How in the world are you supposed to teach a child to deal with life as an adult when most of the time they refuse to listen to anything you say? Usually I feel like the only things my kids are learning from me are (as Spock calls them) “colorful metaphors.”
Oops.
So, I’m sorry kids. I’m sorry your mother has the vocabulary of a highly educated sailor. I’m sorry she makes you eat your vegetables and wash (with soap!) behind your ears. I’m sorry you have to go to bed at 8 p.m. whether your movie is over or not and I’m sorry she won’t let you sword fight with your dad’s machetes.
Maybe it’ll get better when they’re teenagers?
Fingers crossed …