It’s been drama queen city at the casita.
Eight years old must be tough. Especially when your mom is uncomfortably pregnant and isn’t as patient or attentive as she normally is. And you get all kinds of responsibilities when all you’d rather do is play on the computer or pretend you’re singing on stage as the next new Disney sensation.
You have to clean your room. Put your dirty clothes in the hamper. Pick up after your dog who can’t seem to get that the poop goes outside. Of course, it would help if you’d let her out when your mom asked you to.
And you can’t help it if you sound like you’re whining all the time. Everyone is always on your case. Do this. Do that. It’s not fair. Ever. It’s just frustrating to be told what to do all the time. You can’t help it if your voice sounds like that.
And your little sister gets to do everything. She doesn’t have to do anything. She gets her way when she cries every single time. Ok, not all the time. But no one yells at her for not listening all the time. You were listening, you just wanted to check your earrings in the mirror before you went to help put away clothes.
You have to get up early. Feed the dog. Pick out your clothes and get ready for school. Make sure you have your backpack. And sweater. Meanwhile, your cute little sister is sleepily watching Sesame Street and you watch your mom come get her clothes. You don’t really want your mom to pick out your clothes for you, because she’d probably pick out something lame. But it’s just not fair.
Nothing is fair. And you get yelled at for crying about it. Well, I felt like throwing a tantrum because I just didn’t know what else to do. And all I wanted was a cookie. And you wonder, does your mom even love you? So you write her that note.
And all she says is, “Yes I love you. I will always love you. I need for you to learn get a hold of your emotions, so this doesn’t happen again.”
Whatever that means. Now she wants to talk about it. blah blah blah. I just want to be little again.
Hey, would ya look at that? I do remember how to blog. I apparently do need a parenting manual. Fun times.