I was asked a question this weekend that I had never anticipated having to answer, why do I not blog about my dealings with my children? Why I am not a “mommy blogger”. I can answer this quite easily though. I love my kids. Very much. If I blogged my parenting journey, it would likely appear I do not. Perplexed? Let me explain.
I had my first baby when I was just a baby myself. Monster entered the world roughly two months before my 17th birthday. I was bewildered and overwhelmed and pretty much stumbled through my very quick transformation from wild child to mother. I do not blame my age or lack of experience for the fact that many times I found myself staring at my cherubic little baby and wondering why I had chosen to keep him. I still wonder now if perhaps giving him up would have been kinder to him.
A number of years later, and add two more kids and a lot of bad mommy moments and I am now at a point where I realise, perhaps I am not the best giver of parenting advice. I have been known to tell my children when they are being arseholes by actually calling them arseholes. I threaten violence and I have a rather unorthodox approach to child rearing in general.
I am the mom who will sucker punch a kid for having done the same thing to their sibling, or who will insist a child go an hour without anything to eat or drink around a meal time for having neglected to feed a pet. I have told my eldest child he is a sucky big brother because he tries to get his younger siblings into trouble as opposed to sticking up for them. I let my kids eat junk for breakfast sometimes because frankly it is easier than having to make food for all of them.
I am not a “natural mother” or one of those moms who brags that my kid is cuter, smarter, more well behaved or nicer. In fact, I am the mother marvelling at the little ballerinas and child prodigies thinking to myself that those kids *must* be medicated or well trained or something. My daughter thinks ballet is lame, tennis is ok and netball is very girly and really not her cup of tea. That said though, she plays netball every week and we have insisted on at least one extra mural and chucking a ball around apparently beats having to wear a tutu. She is on her way to proving you actually can fail grade one by means of just not caring I think. She takes her dear sweet time getting her work done at school, realises she is not going to finish and then crumples it and shoves it in her chair bag. She has lost roughly three years worth of stationery since January and has just now lost her second message book and homework diary. Her teacher has suggested in a round -about fashion that I am an awful mother who should spend more time bonding with my child. She also suggests more routine and structure and taking the time to ensure that Princess has all her stuff ready every morning.
Gah. Note to moron teacher for a moment. I have another kid also in school right? He actually has a diagnosed concentration issue. His teacher *raves* about his work and diligence and the quality of his work, including homework actually so *I* can’t be doing all that poorly in the mothering department. And FFS, one and for all. My daughter is six, she has a mind of her own and *you* do not know how to communicate with her. She is not dyslexic or stupid, OK?!!!
The eldest seems to have developed an attitude of epic proportions, something about getting older with boys that does this. I usually want to kill him for the month that follows his birthday, right now, more so than ever. Don’t get me wrong. He is smart, and cute and considerate and generally very nice. Problem is all this is only reserved for those he is not related to. To make this kid who is all arms and legs and big toothy grin swings between being mom’s boy and enemy number one. He can be so damned obnoxious I can see myself locking him in the aviary in our back yard just for some peace and quiet. The worst by far though is the constant whining. The kid is going to make a great man cos bitch can he bitch. About absolutely everything.
The little one, or Squishy, is generally very sweet but there are moments I would like to return him to sender as well. His latest trick is to pick up whatever he can get his hands on, generally coffee mugs and glasses, and throw them full force on the floor. I am not charmed. Not at all. He also just tends not to take me too seriously, he runs to dad for comfort, which he gets, which is a whole other post.
Ok let me simplify this. I once drove my children into the middle of a township and made them watch the kids there for a good half hour. We sat there while I pointed out that those children don’t have nice shoes or clothes, they don’t have toys, and many of them aren’t even lucky enough to go to school never mind a nice school like theirs’. I use this outing as a point of reference for them. When they bork their clothes I remind them that there are kids who would be grateful to have nice clothes to wear. When they complain about being bored I suggest packing up their toys and taking them to the same kids. I am somewhat sadistic with punishment.
Monster was crying like a baby over some crap once, I made him go and play with his friends with a nappy on, it was cruel, but it worked. I have sent them out half dressed and forced them to eat the rubbish they concoct in the kitchen. I have threatened to cut off hands, burn fingers, slam fingers in drawers and doors. I have locked a screaming child outside of my front door and told her to go and find a mommy who wants to deal with tantrums. I have told my children to fuck off in no uncertain terms and refused to do nice things for them because of their less than “nice” behaviour. I have sticky taped naughty kids to a wall and fed my kids peanut butter sandwhiches for dinner.
*This* is why I do not blog more about my kids. You are all likely in the middle of dialling the number for the local welfare office. I am likely going to be lambasted for my honesty and frankly don’t care. I’ll take your input when it is your kids I am raising. Until then, feel free to pray for my kids, goodness knows with a crazy-arsed mother like me, they could probably use it.