Where’s The Reset Button?

Sometimes I get the feeling that I’m doing it wrong.

 

All my life, I knew I wanted to be a mother. And don’t misunderstand, I love it. But, you know how people always say that it gets better once you get past whatever stage they’re in? Teething, Not sleeping through the night, potty training, terrible twos, and on and on. The next stage is always hard too!

 

one foot in front of the other

one foot in front of the other

 

I ask my mom, What the hell? These kids!

 

And she laughs. Because she knows!

 

The talking back, yelling, slamming doors. Oh, and my favorite, “FINE!” stomping off in the other direction.

Bye bye!

Bye bye!

Not me, them. (Ok, maybe me. Once.)

 

I’m just trying to do what I think is best here and sometimes, I just don’t know. It’s all so frustrating! Why can’t they just do what they’re supposed to?

 

Because, they’re kids, Lex. I tell myself.

 

They’re trying to push limits. They don’t naturally just do what they’re supposed to, they do what they feel like doing.

 

They get distracted.

 

They make mistakes.

 

They get emotional.

 

They test their limits.

 

They’re little humans, not robots.

 

But man, I wish they had a reset button sometimes.

 

I think we all could use a reset button, actually. Mine would instantly place me in a warm bubbling jacuzzi tub with a glass of wine in my hand.

 

It’s a dance. A death defying balancing act between indulgence and discipline. Many times, I feel like we teeter too close to the edge. And back to school time is always a huge adjustment.

 

I’m their mom. I want to do things for them. I want to take care of them. It’s my job to nurture them.

 

At the same time, I AM their mom. It’s my job to raise them so that they learn to take care of themselves. And become responsible for themselves. And that means they need to have consequences for not doing their part.

 

Lately, it’s been especially tricky.

 

“I hate you!” “It’s not fair!” “I should just live somewhere else!” “Leave me alone!” “It’s MY life!” “But, MOM!” “It’s not my fault!” “I didn’t do it!”

 

The glares. The silent treatments. The crossed arms and stomping feet. The new one, the chest out aggressive motion as though she’s going to punch.

 

The lectures. The groundings. The extra chores. The taking of privileges.

 

It’s tiring.

 

Where’s the damn reset button?



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