Before I was a mother, my idea of parenting was limited by two things;
1- my own experiences from my parents
2- what I saw around me
The first was probably a bit more rocky than most. No regrets. No sadness. Just kinda rocky.
The second reminds me of how us girls must feel when we realize that Cinderella and Snow White stories are bullshit-in-pretty-colors tales. Just not real or happenin’.
This means that, because of what I saw, read, and ‘heard of’ I envisioned playing in tall pastures with the wind blowing. Having picnics at the park with the sun shining warmly. Teaching my children to stack blocks and color in the lines while they smiled lovingly at me.
What I really get is blocks being thrown at the walls and found in my covers so that I pierce my skin at the most inopportune time. Rolls of toilet paper…unrolled…on my bathroom floor. While a toddler lovingly smiles at me. Tantrums of the most extreme at the park…so that other parents stare and wonder if the kids are actually mine while I smile sweetly and think, ‘take them with YOU then‘ as I literally drag them by whatever body part is available to hold. Necks are game too people.
The truth is? I don’t wanna play with them all the time.
Gasp. Eyebrows raise and look-down-judging-noses.
I kinda like to just do what I wanna do while I watch them play. Or fight. Or jump out the window. Whatever.
My idea of fun is NOT to sit on the floor and play tinker toys. Or in reality grit my teeth while I arm battle the children in an effort to keep THEM from fighting and do my very very best not to scream. After about 6 minutes I have expired. I am done.
6 whole minutes. Judge me. (insert expletive here).
Somehow my children do survive. My oldest child, my son, is graduating from high school and I asked him if he feels he had a good childhood.
What the hell else is he gonna say? He wants his car keys right?
Hand me that mother of the year award again, along with my glass of vino.