This wouldn’t be the first time that I have been accused of dramatics. I can assure you, this is not exaggerated. I looked it up, so it has to be legit. Terrorism is the systematic use of terror as a means of coercion or to achieve a goal. Two blonde, curly headed terrorist are coercing their way through my life. It is not only of little importance, but it is no less terrifying that they are four and seven.
Now before you go judging and telling me that “I am the mother” and “I should have more control over my house,” I would first like to say, “You don’t know me” and dare I say, “The chances that you are living with terrorists as well are pretty darn high.” These tricky little devils somehow manipulate you into thinking that you, in fact, are in control and that it’s not so bad. I think this is called Stockholm Syndrome, which is where the hostages (us) start to express empathy and have positive feelings toward their captors (them). Ya’ll can live with your head in the clouds if you wish, but it’s a thing. And it’s real.
Are you one of those that put your kids to bed at the exact same time every single night? Because you are in control and they need routine? I hear what you say…but is it possible that they turn into tiny monsters from the Netherworld when they are up past their bedtime? Is it possible that the very thought of having to deal with that is too much to comprehend? Don’t roll your eyes. I am not saying you are a bad parent. I have been trying desperately for the last 7 years and 9 months to put these tiny insurgents to bed on time. This has gone smoothly exactly zero times. I wish I was lying. #truth
Parents do all kinds of things to keep the peace. Ever see that little girl in the grocery store that is wearing a pink tutu, rain boots, and a gorilla hat? That parent lost the good fight. The kid that ate red dye number 40 with gluten and dairy and high fructose corn syrup?? You don’t know my life. I try. But I’m tired and sometimes it’s just whatever.
As I have blogged about frequently, my oldest has autism. Basically this is like a weapon of mass destruction that he carries around. The rest of the family lives in fear that he may unleash this terror at any moment. It’s been a long road, but I am now able to take a shower…with him awake, with the door shut and locked, and no bloodshed occurs. This is still a new phenomenon so I’m not trying to act all badass about my new found freedom. The last time I took a shower with my husband out of town, I flew through that shower like a murderer was beating down the door. As I got out, soap and conditioner not fully rinsed off, clothes flung on, not looking to see if they were clean or dirty, much less inside out or backwards. I opened the door and breathlessly yelled, “I’m done!” like I was the first to the finish line of an epic race. He looked at me all, “Why are you telling me that?” I think I have PTSD.
This is all fun and games (kind of) except for that it’s true. I am not scared to tell my children no. I know they will have lots of disappointment in life. But I have come to realize I am terrified of certain responses. The ones that make me dread my day. The ones that make me wonder if my child is legit possessed. The ones where I wonder where exactly did I go wrong.
I’m hoping this will all come out in the wash. (Are my deep south roots showing?) I want to raise boys that are productive members of society. I want to raise boys that love their momma fiercely and their God even more. I want to raise good daddys and good husbands. Leaders, thinkers, givers. Men who put others first and always come visit their momma, often. It’s important, for real. This has it’s own set of problems, raising a son that doesn’t fully understand the whole empathy thing. A son that thinks saying, “I don’t want to hug you because you stink” is completely acceptable if it is, in fact true…well that’s for another day.
So know I am trying. I, in fact, do negotiate with them and sometimes, they win. Do me a favor. Don’t offer advice. Don’t judge me or talk about my mad parenting skills. You can, however, pray for me. Maybe a high five with a side of “ME TOO!” because parents just don’t stick together like they should. I am a work in progress. And also I am terrified.