Since kindergarten started back up earlier this month (cue the gospel choir praise Jesus music), things have run fairly smoothly in the mornings. Lunches and snacks and coffee have been prepared at night. Clothes have been laid out. Alarm clocks have been set. No one has left the house wearing mismatched shoes or without a backpack and the dogs have been quite happy to be able to throw their morning martini parties while we’re away (Bailey is partial to Cosmos and Jack is a classic vodka martini kind of guy.)
The other day I was feeling pretty cocky about my mad household management skills. By 7:45 a.m. Miss C was on her way to school with our neighbor and her daughter, dinner was in the crockpot, dishes were put away, and Miss A was dressed from head to toe in princess pink. Feeling uber sure of myself, I gave in to Miss A’s request to play a game on the computer. Don’t ask. Let’s just say that for a 2 1/2-year-old she has some freakishly adept video game skills. I set her up on my laptop and proceeded to finish getting ready to go into the office for a few hours.
Then I told Miss A it was time to go to school.
Our normally cherubic and agreeable little girl turned into the spawn of Satan before my very eyes.
She wailed, she kicked, she threw a fit. She finally calmed down after I peeled her off of my laptop, literally kicking and screaming, and she perked up when the hubby offered to take her to school. I believe Fruit Rollups were used as a bargaining tool, because, of course, it is totally acceptable to sugar up your child and drop them off with their child care provider.
I huffed and puffed and basically told the hubby that I was an idiot for not turning on the television but then agreeing to let a 2-year-old play a Dora video game and expecting her to joyfully give that up. I mean who could blame her? I go back and forth between loving and hating television or any kind of electronic diversion for the girls early in the morning. I mean Dora makes an OK nanny, but when it’s time for her to go, there’s sometimes hell to pay.
It was the mental equivalent of me crossing my arms, pouting, stomping my feet, and yelling to the hubby, “I don’t wanna be the mommy this morning!”
I love being a parent, but I sometimes don’t love parenting.