Parenting

Children can say some pretty hurtful things.

As my kids perused the LEGO aisle in Target one day, I spied on a mom and her little girl.

They were picking out a birthday present and the mom tried to convince her five-year-old daughter to choose a small LEGO friends set.

The daughter agreed, but then… went one step further: she asked for the same set for herself.

“No honey, we’re buying birthday gifts today.”

“BUT WHY??? THAT’S NOT FAIR”

Mom still tried to explain, “Sweetie, its not your birthday. We’re just getting something for your friend.”

“NO. I HATE YOU! YOU’RE THE WORST MOMMY! I DON’T WANT YOU AS MY MOMMY ANYMORE”

He cried when he opened his present. Actual real tears running down his cheeks.

Nope, not tears of happiness.

To him, Santa betrayed him.

Not more than 2 seconds after they hop in the car, the screaming begins.

“No, that’s not what happened Erik. My lunch is at 11:35am, not 11:30.”

I brace myself.

“NO SISSY! YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOUR TALKING ABOUT”

And then, WHAP!

He reaches his little arm across the space in the bucket seats between them and hits her.

“Erik, DON’T HIT ME!!!”

That’s when I intervene.

I don’t know how school bus drivers do it. How do you discipline 30 kids when you’re trying to keep safe and focus on not veering your large yellow, monstrosity off the road

I’m in a Toyota Highlander with only two children and I’m ready to lose my mind.

In the corner of my family room sits my daughter’s backpack, dance bag, coat and her backpack from last year that she refuses to throw away.

Oh my goodness. I’ve asked her ten times to clean up this pile.

I feel as if a huge fist is squeezing my stomach. My shoulders knot up.

Deep breath.

My nine-year-old daughter sighed and stared out the car window at the glow of the street lamps. I could hear the annoyance in her voice.

“I don’t want to talk about it”

Ugh… roadblock. And it had been such a tame conversation.

She told me about how the class had to write a lot that night. Writing during dance class? Totally weird to me. So, I asked her,

“What did you have to write during dance class?”

Bam Total shut down. She clammed up. I had asked one too many questions.

“Ok. That’s fine.” I clenched my jaw. I asked one simple question. Why did she have to treat me like this?

Then, she turned me and said, “I’m sorry.” Not a heartfelt, “I’m sorry.” Rather, the apology dripped with guilt and fear that she had deeply offended me and didn’t want me to be mad at her.

I stared at the complicated chore chart that my dad placed on our refrigerator.

42 cents for washing dishes. 20 cents for picking up my room.

When he first pitched this idea to my 10-year-old self, I wanted to do all the chores immediately.

This was my chance to earn $5 a week. Yes, I could do this!

So, I did the dishes. It took me 20 minutes and I didn’t even get enough money to buy a can of soda. Wouldn’t it be simpler to pull that red can of Coke out of our fridge?

That week, I completed a few boxes of chores from that monster list, collected my $1.15 and then ignored the list the next week.

Soon, the chore chart disappeared.