Gutsy and I got into an argument last Thursday.
Truthfully, we get in arguments most days, but they don't escalate to this level.
See, I had made a nice dinner and called everyone to the table. I was wearing my apron, a pretty pink blouse, a lovely skirt dipping just below my knees (for modesty, of course) and served everyone with a smile.
Actualy, that part is not true at all, but I thought it made for a nice visual. In truth I was wearing jeans that hadn't been washed in three days and had some kind of mystery stain on one knee, a grey rocker shirt and a cream coloured hoodie. Way cooler, but not what you would envision mom donning in the kitchen. I'm that new, cool kind of mom.
I counted those who decided to grace me with their presence: one, two, three. Two gremlins and their male tamer. Where was the middle child, the one with the pointiest horns as of late?
I found him in the playroom on the computer. He probably didn't hear me. 'Gutsy,' I said with a smile. 'Time for dinner.'
'In a minute. I just have to finish this level.'
'I'm coming back in a sec. If you're not done there's going to be a consequence.'
It's apparent where this is going, isn't it? When I returned the boy had apparently finished his level and started an entirely different game. When I asked him once again to come to the table he gave me the in a minute speech, which frankly was getting about as repetitive as Joan Rivers' Botox sessions. So I switched off the monitor and said 'March!' in my firm, growly-mother voice.
That went over very smoothly.
'I don't listen to you! I only listen to Daddy!'
That earned him a time-out on the stairs.
He did not take that time-out. Instead, he stood up and yelled it again. 'I don't listen to you! I only listen to my DADDY!' Daddy asked if he should intervene and I said no, because I needed to assert my alpha mother authority.
After another attempt to get him to sit nicely for his time-out, I picked him up (all 62 pounds of him) and carried him to his room. He then screamed 'I DON'T LIKE YOU! I ONLY LIKE -'
'Yeah, yeah. Daddy!' I said as I slammed the door and stomped downstairs.
(Take note: perfect parenting such as mine takes a great deal of patience and maturity. It will come in time, grasshopper.)
I then temporarily excused myself from dinner and had my own ten minute time-out in the bedroom, where I surfed the 'net and grumbled under my breath.
Having given us both some time to chillax, I made my way upstairs expecting to find a morose and apologetic Gutsy waiting for me with open arms. Instead, I found him crying in the bottom bunk holding a stuffed animal.
'I don't want to talk to you, I only want -' began my second born.
I cut him off, not wanting to hear those painful words again. 'Gutsy, I love you too, you know. Talk to me. What is it about Dad that makes you only want him?'
In a quiet little voice he replied 'Daddy does lots of cool things with me. He comes home from work and he plays with me and he reads to me and he builds things with me. You're always busy doing other stuff, like cooking meals I don't like. You don't play with me as much as Daddy.'
A fire lept up inside of me, the flames tickling my throat. I wanted to spit out something along the lines of: Oh yeah? Well, who do you think makes that all possible, Gutsy? Who makes sure those icky-but-healthy dinners are cooked so your dad doesn't have to skip playing with you so he can make meals you won't eat and just complain about? Who does all the boring, mundane stuff like do your homework with you, sign your permission slips, make you snacks, fold your laundry? And, and... Who convinced your dad he wanted another baby when he was so happy with just one? Yeah, that's right. Five years, Gutsy. Five years to have you. I was your biggest fertility cheerleader. You wouldn't be here if it wasn't for me! Who's so special now, huh? Who's the one you gave you life? Went through 27 hours of horrible labour only to get a c-section? Nursed you for three years? Planned all your birthday parties? So... So... you better like me, ok? I'm pretty special. I'M YOUR DAMN MOM.
But I couldn't tell him all of that, of course. I would have made his fragile six-year-old brain explode and leak dysfunction into his tiny body, breaking his heart and launching him into weekly therapy sessions for twenty-five years. So instead I just sat there on the bed and stroked his hair lovingly, and the lines of his sweet little face, and wiped his tears.
And then I turned my head away and tried not to shed some of my own.
I failed.
Gently, Gutsy took my hand in his. In the sweetest, most sincere voice, he said the words he felt would make it all ok: 'Mommy, it's not that I don't like you. I like you a little bit. Just not as much as Daddy. Ok?'
And, with that, I hugged him, wiped my own tears and went down to dinner holding his hand. What else could I do? Honesty is a good thing. And besides, Intrepid likes me when I'm not battling his teenage angst, and Spawnling likes me because I have boobies that make milk. Gutsy will come around in time - probably once I become a rich writer and can buy him some cool crap. Until then, in the words of the mighty Meatloaf:
Truthfully, we get in arguments most days, but they don't escalate to this level.
See, I had made a nice dinner and called everyone to the table. I was wearing my apron, a pretty pink blouse, a lovely skirt dipping just below my knees (for modesty, of course) and served everyone with a smile.
Actualy, that part is not true at all, but I thought it made for a nice visual. In truth I was wearing jeans that hadn't been washed in three days and had some kind of mystery stain on one knee, a grey rocker shirt and a cream coloured hoodie. Way cooler, but not what you would envision mom donning in the kitchen. I'm that new, cool kind of mom.
I counted those who decided to grace me with their presence: one, two, three. Two gremlins and their male tamer. Where was the middle child, the one with the pointiest horns as of late?
I found him in the playroom on the computer. He probably didn't hear me. 'Gutsy,' I said with a smile. 'Time for dinner.'
'In a minute. I just have to finish this level.'
'I'm coming back in a sec. If you're not done there's going to be a consequence.'
It's apparent where this is going, isn't it? When I returned the boy had apparently finished his level and started an entirely different game. When I asked him once again to come to the table he gave me the in a minute speech, which frankly was getting about as repetitive as Joan Rivers' Botox sessions. So I switched off the monitor and said 'March!' in my firm, growly-mother voice.
That went over very smoothly.
'I don't listen to you! I only listen to Daddy!'
That earned him a time-out on the stairs.
He did not take that time-out. Instead, he stood up and yelled it again. 'I don't listen to you! I only listen to my DADDY!' Daddy asked if he should intervene and I said no, because I needed to assert my alpha mother authority.
After another attempt to get him to sit nicely for his time-out, I picked him up (all 62 pounds of him) and carried him to his room. He then screamed 'I DON'T LIKE YOU! I ONLY LIKE -'
'Yeah, yeah. Daddy!' I said as I slammed the door and stomped downstairs.
(Take note: perfect parenting such as mine takes a great deal of patience and maturity. It will come in time, grasshopper.)
I then temporarily excused myself from dinner and had my own ten minute time-out in the bedroom, where I surfed the 'net and grumbled under my breath.
Having given us both some time to chillax, I made my way upstairs expecting to find a morose and apologetic Gutsy waiting for me with open arms. Instead, I found him crying in the bottom bunk holding a stuffed animal.
'I don't want to talk to you, I only want -' began my second born.
I cut him off, not wanting to hear those painful words again. 'Gutsy, I love you too, you know. Talk to me. What is it about Dad that makes you only want him?'
In a quiet little voice he replied 'Daddy does lots of cool things with me. He comes home from work and he plays with me and he reads to me and he builds things with me. You're always busy doing other stuff, like cooking meals I don't like. You don't play with me as much as Daddy.'
A fire lept up inside of me, the flames tickling my throat. I wanted to spit out something along the lines of: Oh yeah? Well, who do you think makes that all possible, Gutsy? Who makes sure those icky-but-healthy dinners are cooked so your dad doesn't have to skip playing with you so he can make meals you won't eat and just complain about? Who does all the boring, mundane stuff like do your homework with you, sign your permission slips, make you snacks, fold your laundry? And, and... Who convinced your dad he wanted another baby when he was so happy with just one? Yeah, that's right. Five years, Gutsy. Five years to have you. I was your biggest fertility cheerleader. You wouldn't be here if it wasn't for me! Who's so special now, huh? Who's the one you gave you life? Went through 27 hours of horrible labour only to get a c-section? Nursed you for three years? Planned all your birthday parties? So... So... you better like me, ok? I'm pretty special. I'M YOUR DAMN MOM.
But I couldn't tell him all of that, of course. I would have made his fragile six-year-old brain explode and leak dysfunction into his tiny body, breaking his heart and launching him into weekly therapy sessions for twenty-five years. So instead I just sat there on the bed and stroked his hair lovingly, and the lines of his sweet little face, and wiped his tears.
And then I turned my head away and tried not to shed some of my own.
I failed.
Gently, Gutsy took my hand in his. In the sweetest, most sincere voice, he said the words he felt would make it all ok: 'Mommy, it's not that I don't like you. I like you a little bit. Just not as much as Daddy. Ok?'
And, with that, I hugged him, wiped my own tears and went down to dinner holding his hand. What else could I do? Honesty is a good thing. And besides, Intrepid likes me when I'm not battling his teenage angst, and Spawnling likes me because I have boobies that make milk. Gutsy will come around in time - probably once I become a rich writer and can buy him some cool crap. Until then, in the words of the mighty Meatloaf:
Don't be sad, 'cuz two out of three ain't bad.