On Being Raised by The Reds....

There are days when parenting is easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy.

There are days when parenting honks.

Some days, I am a good mother.

Some days, I honk.

Today, parenting honked, honked some more and then...it didn't.

Today, I honked as a mother...until I didn't.

Allow me to confess brag explain:

Matthew and I began our day hollering. Rather, I hollered, he attempted to and then gave up to  burst into tears. I stormed upstairs in anger and to give myself a chance to calm down. Once I had, I was overcome with shame and remorse: he'd been right, I so very, very wrong.

I apologized profusely and then saw him off at the school gate, guilt clawing at my heart, eyes welling.

All the way home, I berated myself. Counted the hours until I could cover his face in kisses and be thankful for another chance to be the mother he deserves.

On the way home, I whispered, "I've been thinking about you all day. Will you forgive me for being so mean this morning?"

Matthew smiled: "I forgive you times three."

* * *

The Reds are tired. And when they're tired, they fight. After supper they argued with the boy next door, the girls down the street and finally, each other. And it was ugly. Ugly and nasty and it took all my waning patience NOT to knock their heads together.

Instead, I sent the other kids home, ushered the Reds inside and  quietly, but firmly ordered them upstairs: pyjamas on, teeth brushed, in bed. NOW.

I raised an eyebrow and pointed a finger for good measure.

Up they went, but not before some shoves on the stairs and punch in the hallway. In the end, I told them they'd have their say once they were in bed. If they spoke ONE WORD before that happened they'd have to go to bed at 6 tomorrow night, too.

Silently, they obeyed, so I sat back and gestured for Matthew to speak first.

"I don't want Luke to sleep in my bed until May 2nd." He crossed angry arms and glared at no one in particular.

"That seems fair."

Luke wailed and carried on, beating his blankets even as he pulled them up as he climbed into his own bed for the first time in a month. Finally, he too crossed his arms and arranged his face into "mad":

"Matthew can't touch ANY of my stuff ever. Never ever, ever."

"Okey-dokey. It's your stuff. He won't touch it."

I kissed them, told them I love them and closed the door, only to stand outside of it, holding my breath.

Two long, silent minutes passed and then:

"Hey, Luke?"
"What?"
"Do you wanna be friends again?"
"No. I wanna be brothers AND friends."
"OK."

Another pause.

"Wanna come sleep up here?"
"OK."
"Can I touch your stuff sometimes?"
"Yeah. I was only gonna make that rule until you're 10, anyways."


I guess this parenting thing doesn't honk after all.

Well, not today.

To Whom it May Concern:

Dear Baileys,

God bless you, inventors of bliss-in-a-glass. Thank you for tiny, perfect, quiet moments at the end of those days which are neither perfect nor quiet.

Sincerely,
Belly


Dear Bell Canada,

There are only 337 days left until my contract with you expires. To say that I am delighted about this would be an understatement.  Hallefreakin'luhiah!

Sincerely,
Elizabeth


Dear Murphy's Oil,

This morning, my son coloured on my oak desk with marker. This afternoon, he coloured on the hardwood floor with a different coloured  marker. About an hour ago, he took two markers to the coffee table.

Your product not only removed every spot, my house smells amazing. God bless you.

Sincerely,
Elizabeth


Dear Crayola,

Washable? I beg to effing differ.

Signed,
E.M.


Dear Sons,

This week is NOT a no-yell one. That was LAST week. Just because last week's no-yell efforts were dismal failures, that does NOT automatically mean that the following week will be about making up.

This week is about getting through.

Despite the yelling, colouring, hitting, shoving, tattling, throwing, jumping, whining and inability to get through a bath without splashing water, I love you both with all that I am.

Remember that. Forget the rest.

Love,
Mummy


Dear God,

Thank you for today and for my sons. Without them, I might never learn the things I should: patience, consistency, letting go. Hope to pop by this Sunday.

Love,
Me

P.S. Please bless the Baileys and the Murphys. They saved my floor and my sanity.


Dear Elizabeth,

You are a work in progress. Remember that. Forget the rest.

The best is yet to come.

Love,
Bellymonster

Operation No-Yell: "And on the seventh day, Mummy...."

yelled.



You were expecting something different, perhaps?

Ha!

In my defense, Mr. Super-Sassy-Pants and Mr. I'm-Not-Listening-Nah-Nah-Boo-Boo had it coming.

It's 6:30 pm, a full half hour before their bedtime and they are in bed, lights off. Matthew didn't get a story and even though neither boy has brushed his teeth, I am not going back up there.

Weirdly, I don't feel TOO badly about the yelling. What a change from the beginning of this week!

During the past seven days, I have reached a number of interesting conclusions about parenting,  the nature of discipline and myself:

 MOST of time, if I'm yelling, it has nothing to do with the children and everything to do with me. I am learning to recognize that and correct it before the vocal fireworks begin and all around, things are much better.

My children respond much better to praise and quiet voices than to hollering and anger. Huh. Go figure, eh?

Everyone has a opinion about Operation No-Yell. Some roll their eyes, some nod sagely, others want to know every detail of the past week, eager to either learn from my experience or to tear it all to bits. I am both thin AND thick-skinned about this: I know that I am good mother - my changing how I parent (or attempting to) is not an admission of defeat - it is an effort to be better. To be MORE.

To be better more often.

Not surprisingly then, I bristled at the assumption that I am trying to Super Mom, or that I am most concerned with being friends with my children instead of their guardian and protector and teacher. After chewing, bristling and spluttering indignantly, I realized an important truth:

I am not attempting to be anything more than the kind of mother  that I am absolutely meant to be and more importantly, the kind of mother that my children deserve.

I feel empowered and invigorated by this realization. I don't think that there is any shame in admitting that I need help or guidance. A friend of mine is horrified that I blog about my failings (perceived or otherwise) and can't understand why I feel compelled to reach out to the world at large - leaving myself open to criticism and judgement.

What I know for sure is this:
,
I reach out because that is who I am. I overshare, too. I feel too deeply, talk too much and seldom stop to think before I speak, emote or act. I reach out because I trust that those who know me best will understand and support me. I trust that those who don't know me will be drawn to my honesty and imperfections. I hope that they will recognize something of themselves in me and feel comfort. Kinship.

I write about who I am - as a wife and as a mother I am a work in progress.

I write about who I want to be: more often than not, a better wife and mother.


These parenting waters are tricky to navigate and as the boys grow into themselves, they take me into uncharted territory. Seems to me that by reaching out and admitting that I am lost, I stand a better chance of being found. Or of someone handing me a map.

Thanks to all of you for being part of the journey!

Tools of the Trade

I need new tools for parenting the Reds. My arsenal is empty and obviously, hollering at the Reds all the time is not doing them - or the world - any favours.

Time-outs work most of the time, but today I forgot to call Matthew out of one until his pitiful request floated down the stairwell: "Mummy? Can I be done in Time-Out now? I have to poo!"

I need coping strategies for the Witching Hour, the first hour of every day when I'm trying to herd sleepy leprechauns into frozen boots and a cold car. I need patience tips for potty-training and fussy eating, too.

I need help reigning in my own ferocious temper and my need to control everyone, all the time.

I need advice about how to entertain them without wanting to stab out my own eyes and please, PLEASE can someone help me with the tattle-taling? I am going to hurl myself out the stinkin' window if ONE MORE little boy begins a sentence this way:

"Mummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmyyy....he hit/stepped on/took my/ate the/looked at me/called me/said/swore at me/broke my/breathed...."


Bring your best stuff, people.

Please.

And thank you.