Parenting is one constant struggle for morale. Last night I made a quiche for dinner. Bacon, mushroom and cheddar. Sir liked it. He wasn’t feeling well so I wanted to give him something comforting. But the kids weren’t having any of it. The toddler pretended to gag until I had to hum to drown him out. And the baby just screamed until we got up from the table. It was the simultaneously longest and shortest dinner we’ve had in a long time. Talk about needing a drink.
What is it about small children that know exactly what buttons to push? I pick them up from daycare and I’m feeling great. I usually get a lot of work done during the day and I leave to get them feeling refreshed. Then on the drive home the baby screams and the toddler talks about all the snacks he will have as soon as we walk in the door. And he means it. As soon as we walk in the door he makes requests for a variety of foods that aren’t what I’m making for dinner.
It’s like the fight to get ready for bed or trying to get them to behave when we go out to eat with family. Is it wrong that part of me can’t wait until they grow up and want nothing to do with me. Until, of course, they hug me and call me mom. That tends to tide me over until the screaming starts again. So, if I’m lucky, a solid ten minutes.