Things About Which I Argued With My Children TodayPosted: October 27, 2014 | |
This is the day I earned with that previous smug post. Nothing major, just majorly crabby children. Luckily, it was capped off by a fun dinner with Dr. G. and her kiddos at which my brood magically behaved, so by day’s end I was no longer considering running away and joining the circus.
Here is a partial list of the topics of our arguments today. Please imagine everything the children said as having been uttered in the whiniest, most demanding, grating little voices possible.
1) “I don’t want fruit goop. I don’t need to poop.”
2) Spilled milk. Yes, there were cascades of tears over spilled milk.
2) “I want to spill my milk again.”
3) “I want to come.” Little Liebchen wanted to come with Das Big Boy to the pediatrician. Because that’s what babies love–trips to the doctor.
4) General difficulties pinning four year old to table for medical exam.
5) Toddler throwing herself to the floor because I kept trying to give her the wrong sippy cup.
6) “I want to have a wingding.” No known reason, but DBB wanted to have a tantrum just because.
7) “Boob milk. No nap.”
8) I won’t wear shoes to pick up brother.
9) I want to get down and run around even though I’m not wearing shoes.
10) “I don’t want to talk about a school. I want to talk about the railroad crossing.”
11) “I don’t want to come inside. I want milk. I don’t have to pee. I want privacy in the potty.” Commence intense whining wingding that lasts for an hour.
12) “Mom, you are so going to get another blister.”
13) “Mom, you are going to die from your blister.”
14) “I want to have a wingding,” part II.
15) “I don’t want to read Goodnight Moon. I want to talk about garbage trucks. I love stinky garbage trucks. I one a garbage truck. I two a garbage truck. I three a garbage truck. I four a garbage truck. I five a garbage truck. I six a garbage truck. I seven a garbage truck. I eight a garbage truck. Eeeeew. I ATE a garbage truck!”
16) And finally, a scene:
The Husband Hausfrau’s are indulging in a bit of HBO DVR. The TV room door opens.
DBB: I want to watch TV.
Husband Hausfraus: It’s time for bed.
DBB: Who’s his name? (pointing at TV).
HH: That’s John Oliver.
DBB: I want to watch John Oliver.
Hipster Hausfrau, smelling defeat and trying to take pediatrician’s advice about not making bedtime about playing in bed, but likely missing the whole point: Ok, come cuddle for a minute.
HH, after a minute: Now it’s time for bed.
DBB: I want to watch John Elephant.
At dinner, Dr. G. and I discussed how as a preemie parent, watching DBB fight for his life and not being able to hold him and all that horrible stuff, I thought I would always be grateful and never be irritable. But it hasn’t turned out that way. Dr. G. pointed out that if it had, I probably wouldn’t have been a very good mom. And I suppose that makes sense; perspective is important, but too much of it makes it hard to operate in the daily sphere. Good reframing of my crankiness, Dr. G. Thank you!
Good night, sweet readers. May you fall asleep with more ease than DBB, who is still running around upstairs, likely pretending to be John Elephant.