Our dog Roxy died, my son is home with strep (2nd time in a month- go team!), my 3rd grader has PMS. And I couldn't even turn my children's behavior around with threatening that Rudolph (our elf on the shelf, of course) was going to shit in their stockings this year. Ok, I didn't say shit. Or maybe I did. It was early, I was tired, and they were partying on my very last fried nerve.
Since leaving the corporate world (aka Alcatraz) I've quickly realized I have no idea how I used to juggle this madness. God bless you working mommies. Seriously. I've also wondered what happened to my sweet little girl who used to think I was ok. At her 9-year-checkup I thought I was so funny when the pediatrician asked if we had noticed any pre-pube changes (ok she said the technical term, but you get the point). I asked if eye-rolling counted, whereby Santana quickly slayed me by ripping out my throat and setting fire to my hair with her own two eyes. Yikes.
I'm happy to report that the child does not put up with any shit. I put up with so much shit that it was pathetic. Yesterday she told a boy, "You don't know WHO you're dealing with, so BACK OFF!" I literally cried big, giant pride tears. Until she turned on me.
Do any of you have experience with this stage? If so, you won't be the ones judging me to know that yesterday I screamed at a cloud, I looked adoringly at a mom and sweet daughter giggling at the park. OK, it wasn't an adoring look. I may have kicked a tree.
Dear Santa, maybe we can turn this around so Rudolph can leave something battery-operated, er hershey kisses for us all?
xo,
K.
Since leaving the corporate world (aka Alcatraz) I've quickly realized I have no idea how I used to juggle this madness. God bless you working mommies. Seriously. I've also wondered what happened to my sweet little girl who used to think I was ok. At her 9-year-checkup I thought I was so funny when the pediatrician asked if we had noticed any pre-pube changes (ok she said the technical term, but you get the point). I asked if eye-rolling counted, whereby Santana quickly slayed me by ripping out my throat and setting fire to my hair with her own two eyes. Yikes.
I'm happy to report that the child does not put up with any shit. I put up with so much shit that it was pathetic. Yesterday she told a boy, "You don't know WHO you're dealing with, so BACK OFF!" I literally cried big, giant pride tears. Until she turned on me.
Do any of you have experience with this stage? If so, you won't be the ones judging me to know that yesterday I screamed at a cloud, I looked adoringly at a mom and sweet daughter giggling at the park. OK, it wasn't an adoring look. I may have kicked a tree.
Dear Santa, maybe we can turn this around so Rudolph can leave something battery-operated, er hershey kisses for us all?
xo,
K.
