I’ll be honest. I’m mostly a pushover. The kids get away with a lot, because there are only so many battles I can fight, and primarily because I know if I can just get them out of the house and active, everyone will be happier.
But tonight they broke me. I had a kind of tough and busy day at work. Mark is in Philadelphia. It’s Monday, so it’s soccer (again) for Callum, so I left a few minutes early to rush home to throw some dinner together for all of us so we could get out the door on time. Chicken and noodles were ready right at 6, so I went upstairs to get everyone. It was then I was barraged, like a round of gunfire, with the “he did this” and “he did that” and “he coloured on the wall with permanent marker” sprinkled with the latest dose of attitude and talking back and then my head exploded.
No soccer. No dinner service. Cold noodles served at 7. I don’t even care if the punishment doesn’t fit the crime. I busted my ass to get home for you, and this is what you do and how you talk to me?
I was so angry that I didn’t even need to yell. There’s no passion in being completely fed up. I’m at the point I’d like to go for a drive and not return. Fend for yourselves, since you all know better!
It’s evenings like this that I wonder how the hell I got myself into this mess. (Yes, I am clear how I got myself into this mess, and I don’t need ; it’s a rhetorical question.) Why did I think becoming a parent at all was a good idea?
They screamed and screamed. They didn’t expect me to follow through, and I did, and we didn’t go to soccer. Callum cried so hard he nearly threw up, and he fell asleep on the couch before 7 – unheard of. Oliver resigned himself to tidying up the playroom and doing some reading, once he ate his cold noodles.
He sent me a peace offering while I got Charlie ready for bed. Along with many, many apologies and attempts to be helpful. Is it enough? It has to be enough for today. I haven’t driven off into the sunset, yet, anyway.