It is probably not saying much for yourself when you are so easily defeated by a water bottle. Twice. And two different water bottles. I opened the fridge, searching with a somewhat muddled brain for the cream to go in my
liquid crack blood of life coffee. And out topples a a very cold and very full water bottle, right on the most injured part of my foot. Screaming ensued as the bottle broke open and icy cold water quickly followed the pain and formed a river across my kitchen floor. Scott and Ty stood near me, staring, apparently incapable of fetching a towel. Fun. So, I cleaned it up and reached for a new water bottle to fill and chill before finding it’s daily home in a backpack. I have several that look the same but have different lids, so after finding one that fit, I headed to the sink, not bothering to remove the lid. Holding the opening to the faucet, I began to fill it, no problem. But being me, and being somewhat sleep-deprived AND not having had my coffee yet, I was easily distracted. I forgot to actually pay attention to what I was doing,… until the icy water reached the top and shot out at me in a giant spray. Bangs dripping and wet to the waist, I set the damn thing in the fridge and drank my coffee. Water bottles: 2, Kim: 0.
Did it end there? Of course not. After the bus left, I stood for a few moments, chatting with one of the other moms. As I headed back to my apratment, I managed to catch my flip-flop on, I don’t know, air? And I fell. In a skirt. On the asphalt. In the path of an oncoming garbage truck. With coffee. I did manage neither to break my coffee mug nor spill it, but I am pretty sure that the garbage men now know the color of my lady underpinnings. Fantastic.
It is only 10am. The day is young. Eep.
But apparently my 9yo cannot. I’m telling you, it is a battle of wills lately, and I think he is winning that battle. What he lacks in reason and legitimacy, he has the stamina to stick with it no matter what. He is going to win by default simply because he has worn me down until I am nothing more than a burbling puddle of human goo. Either that or my head is going to somehow become a fully rotating appendage and begin spinning out of control as I spew pea green vomit.
He is so defiant, yet manages to not be overtly so. If it’s possible, he is very polite in his defiance. Which, I realize, on the surface sounds either impossible or not a big deal. It isn’t so much the severity of the individual acts of defiance, but the frequency of them that gets to me. It doesn’t matter what it is about, chances are he is either going to totally ignore what I am saying or he is going to agree, and then do what he wants anyway. And most of the stuff is relatively little, but we go through this over and over and over and over and,… well, you get the point. But while most of it is small stuff, I feel like you still have to sweat it because if you let that go, it sets a precedent that Mom’s directives are more of a suggestion and it makes it that much easier to ignore EVERYTHING I say. And that just isn’t good.
I have yelled, I have talked, and I have internally lost my mind. To no avail whatsoever. It’s gotten to the point where it feels like a slap in the face. I have talked to him so many times, explained it so many times. We have talked about why it’s wrong. We have talked about the fact that, like it or not, I am the mom, and sometimes there are reasons that he might not necessarily know about for the things I say and do. We have talked about the fact that while maybe there are times when he doesn’t understand, there are reasons, that age has given me wisdom he doesn’t have yet. I have told him that it hurts my feelings when he doesn’t listen to me, that it is to the point where he is, by his actions, telling me that I am not important enough to listen to.
I am one frustrated mama.
My “fluffy bunny” happy attitude seems to be AWOL. Between children and adult drama, I think my brain and patience level are thoroughly deep fried. And because I certainly don’t want to deal with any more drama, a good portion of it is just brewing inside me, making me a human pressure cooker. If I explode, it won’t be pretty.
I am convinced that my 9yo hates me. Or he has decided to finally have those terrible two’s now that he never really had then. Or it is an evil experiment to see how far he can push his mama before she begins to speak in tongues and drool. Either way, it ain’t good for the mama. But I do have to give him credit. He isn’t focusing all of his energy on any one thing; instead, he is spreading the frustration in as many areas as he can. It’s like a blitzkrieg on Mama’s sanity. And I am pretty sure he is winning. Every day is a struggle, and it isn’t even new and different. I am pretty certain that I must be speaking in Swahili, although I consciously know no Swahili. Nonetheless, I think that is what happening, based on a number of indicators. For one thing, when air passes through my vocal cords and they begin to vibrate in an audible manner, my child looks at me as if he is trying so very hard to comprehend the meaning of the sounds coming from my mouth, but he just can’t understand. Generally he responds to my utterings, indicating comprehension, but based on the fact that most of what I am saying is generally ignored, I think he is just faking the understanding. But not all of our problems are because of the apparent language barrier. Language isn’t an issue when he constantly butts into a conversation and puts his two cents in, generally in a conversation about which he knows very little. I also love being corrected by a 9yo. It’s even better when they are wrong. I am exasperated.
But it isn’t just the small human beings that are trying my patience. It is the big ones, too. Between the snarkiness and the bad behavior and total lack responsibility for that behavior, it is a miracle that I am not adding a bit of Stoli to my morning java. Some of the excuses are just out of control. Yeah, sometimes there are mitigating reasons for the bad behavior, but sometimes that just means that, as an adult, if you know those reasons exist, then you have the extra responsibility of ensuring you don’t take stuff out on other people that haven’t done anything to deserve. And sometimes those reasons have nothing to do with it. Sometimes you are just a bitch.