Stellar Parenting Moment

Something in my brain snapped. I think there was an actual, physical, crack - and out of that crack crawled . . . the mommy monster! (Dun dun dun Daaaaah!) For weeks I have been practicing calm, consistent, tough love towards my daughter in response to a very whiny, rude, demanding phase she is going through. (I hope it's a phase.) My tactics have actually been working pretty well. So why the crack? I think maybe a tectonic plate shifted in my head. Who knows? The perfect storm of emotions and timing came together, and I was suddenly like a tether ball that had been smaked off the end of its tether. Totally lost my cool. In any case, the earth shook in my daughters room.

It was the usual morning rush of getting everyone up, dressed, fed, lunches packed, homework in backpacks - clean those nails, comb that hair - hey where's your belt?, has anyone seen my other shoe?, kind of morning. Shockingly, we were a little behind. Rae Lynn chose this particular moment to become her alter ego - Rae Lynntless. The plan was for me to make her breakfast and pack her lunch while she ran upstairs and got dressed. She is very capable of this, as evidenced by the 15 routine costume changes on any given day. Instead of dashing up the stairs and leaping into action though, she says, "But I need your helllllllllllllllllllllllllllllp"! "What do you need?" I ask, as calmly as possible so as not to arouse her "irritation radar" and escalate the whining. "I want to wear my blue polka dot shirt". "OK, that's a good choice" I agree, in a foolish attempt to assuage the beast. "But, I can't fiiiiiiiiiiind it - I need you to help me fiiiiiiiiind it". Mind you, she hasn't ascended the stairs yet, so I am fairly certain she hasn't actually looked for it. "It's probably in the pile of clean clothes by your chest of drawers - go take a look for it while I get your breakfast" I say, a little too cheerily. She is on to me. "But I need your helllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllp, I don't know where it iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis. Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeez helpmehelpmehelpmehelpme". You get the picture. I agree to get the shirt just to stop the barrage of helpmes. Does this work? Of course not. I knew it wouldn't, and yet I fell hook, line & sinker into her trap. I am as irritated at myself as I am at her. I hear my own voice slip into a register that is something akin to a harpee. "Weren't you playing 'vacation' with it the other day?" "Did you pack that shirt in a bag?" "I DIDN'T PACK IT!" she screeches, offended that I would even suggest it. "OK, well it's not in the clean clothes pile, and it's not in the drawer. It looks like you need to pick a different shirt". Wrong suggestion. "Noooooooooooooooo" she wails dramatically, as if her very life depended on wearing the blue polka dot shirt. "I think I diiiiiiiid paaaaaaack iiiiiiiiiiiiiiit. Where is the baaaaaaaaaaaaaaag?" I believe it is at about this point that the San Andreas Fault opened up in my brain. My head tilts, one of my eyes starts to twitch, and gurgling up out of the fissure comes something beyond yelling, though perhaps just shy of a full tilt scream . . . "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO" I shriek until all the air has left my lungs. Deep breath. "WHIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNING"! There is blissful quiet as my daughter sits in stunned silence on the end of her bed. "DID YOU GET THAT?" I inquire with a nasty edge in my voice. "Yes" she says in a tiny little voice. Images of Faye Dunnaway in Mommy Dearest flash before my eyes. That, crossed with a hint of Linda Blair in The Exorcist. She was definitely waiting for my head to spin around and pea soup to come projectile vomiting from my mouth. I always felt that Faye took that wire hanger scene over the top. I never bought it . . . until now. "Who are you?" I think to myself. "Get dressed" I say gruffly, but in control once again.

Part of me is berating myself as I descend the stairs, and part of me is feeling a sense of relief after that primal outburst. Several minutes later, after toasting her wheat waffle and making a quick lunch, I am still reeling from our episode. I am simultaneously seething from her behavior, and beating myself up for my own behavior, when I hear skipping. Skipping. She pops into the kitchen, dressed in her blue polka dot shirt, and chirps happily "I found it!" as if nothing had happened at all. I stare at her for a moment in dumbfounded silence. I finally find my voice and say, "Where was it"? "In my pink purse, on the floor, under the bed!" Of course. Why didn't I think of that? "That's great honey" I say flatly "Here's your waffle - eat up, we need to fly". "OK, thanks mom!" Apparently I've shocked Rae Lynntless back into her secret lair, and regular Rae Lynn has reemerged. (Scene's of Sybil flicker across my psyche) From here on out, she and I operate like a well oiled machine, and we are out the door lickety-split. I get back home into my cool, quiet house and collapse into a chair. I'm exhausted and it is all of 8:26 a.m. Nobody said parenting would be easy. I seem to have misplaced the manual that must have come with her. I'll look for it later - a bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee should put it all right. I'll put a good double knot when reattaching myself to the tether, forgive myself this transgression, I'll do better next time. Then I've got to get moving, there is a busy day ahead!

Command Performance

Is it just me, or has the word "MANDATORY" been tacked on to everything we do? Mandatory PTO meeting. Mandatory Back-To-School night. Mandatory Scout outing . . . mandatory confirmation meeting. Mandatory service hours, mandatory fingerprinting, mandatory Virtus training, mandatory raffle tickets, mandatory scrip, mandatory annual fund, mandatory tuition auto-withdrawal (you must sign up and there is a fee for doing so) and here's my favorite . . . mandatory donation. Is that a quaint euphimism for a bill? Does it even count as a donation if it is MANDATORY? Is my mortgage payment merely a suggestion? I know that "down sizing" is a nice way of saying you're out of a job (your presence is no longer mandatory). I am saturated up to my eyeballs with being told where I must be, and what I must do. Being very mature, it makes me want to do just the opposite. It's making me feel like a petulant 7-year-old - I am about ready to take my ball and go home.

Whatever happened to, "The honor of your presence is requested" . . . or, "Please join us" . . . heck, I'd be pleased as punch with a "Come by for stale popcorn!" invite. Invite being the operative word here. People used to ask for my time and money - now they simply demand it. Punishment will be meted out for any transgressions - a fine will be levied, you will be tossed out on your tushee, at the very least, you will be pointed out for shame and ridicule.

We've all become so over-scheduled and bogged down, we have lost sight of what is really important. I don't want to have to be anywhere. I want my children to be able to stare up at the sky and let their minds wander. I want to take a drive for the sake of taking a drive. No planned destination - just put on some music and look out the windows at the scenery going by. I want to be with the people I love, have dessert for dinner, and laugh at stupid stuff till I cry!

If cancer has taught me anything, it's that I don't have time to waste. The multitude of mandatory minutia is sucking the life out of life. We all need a day where we never even get out of our jammies. We hunker in with a fireplace and a good book . . . maybe some board games and dancing in the living room. A fun family movie and some take-out. Jammie Day. I love it. I say we make it . . . mandatory!