Quickly becoming a hot mess, I get to the front entrance way. One child has shoes on and no coat. He is playing with a skeleton balloon, though, so it’s not like he’s doing nothing. I mean, clearly this is something that needs to be done, right at this very moment. Why else did he just cross that chasm?The other is sitting on the floor, no shoes or coat on, just staring into space. I close my eyes and silently count to five, the sweat beading on my upper lip. Anxiety whispering in my ear that I have no patience. She really has no respect for personal space……… I exhale deeply and ask my sweet babies to put on their shoes and coats. For the fifteenth f**king time!
I know kids don't listen. I know!!!! But, somehow it doesn't make it any less rage inducing. My husband? He doesn't listen to me either. I am just the crotchety ghost that haunts my house -wandering around, usually slightly hungry, having a conversation, that includes a ludicrous amount of repetition, with nobody. Apparently.k
When we make it outside, things do not improve. The perspiration that has gathered, from the tenuous task of getting the littles outside, is now being chilled by the crisp fall wind. Before I can acclimatize, one child has taken off running down the street and the other is swinging around a young tree that we share with our neighbour, that is bending to his will. FFS. I grab the tree tormentor by the arm and start hustling towards the deserter. I am calling his name. I am sure it sounds like the crazed shrieks of neurotic mama about to lose her shit. Here’s the thing, the path that we have on our street, is at the end of everyone’s driveways. Every time my boys are ahead of me, enough that I can not reach out and grab them, Anxiety is screaming that they are going to get hit by a car. She is so persistent, in this matter, that I immediately begin to feel panic and scan all the cars that are parked in the driveways, searching for signs of power – reverse lights on, exhaust billowing. It is a f**king death trap! Listening is important!
In contrast, when it is my turn to listen, my game better be on. My brain and my ears better be warmed up. They better have done their 30 minutes of cardio. Because everyone is going to talk to me, at...the...same...time. The littlest will start showing me a drawing, his brother will step in front of him and talk over him, and their father will ask me a question, over top of the young human chatter. What do I do, you ask? I look at the drawing of the sausage-making machine that is run by the guy who "toots all the time", while listening to the extensive expansions that have been added to a hotel in Minecraft, and answer what our plans are on Saturday. You know, I listen. Sigh.
I know kids don't listen. I know that shit. I have one thing to say to that. Challenge accepted. I will continue to repeat myself, until I am drenched in sweat and counting with my eyes clamped shut. I will continue screaming their names in public, like a wild woman, until they stop. Every. Single. Time. The outcome will be one of two things: they will learn to listen or I will lose it. Here's hoping for the former. Here's hoping for the former. Wait...did I say that already?
Does Mommy need to lose her shit?
Not this week.
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