Articles tagged with: mom’s a wimp
If I hear “Hit Me With Your Best Shot” one more time, I’m going to shoot the computer.
Now, I’m as big a Benatar fan as any gal who shaved her sideburns in the 80s, and …
The nightly knock-downs had ended. The sleep-time smack downs were over.
And now we’re back to bedtime bedlam, due to a combination of wimpiness and stupidity on my part.
Don’t you love it when you make your …
Ever feel like you’re living a Subway commercial? You know, the one where dad says no to requests for everything from a bigger allowance to dying the cat?
I love that dad. His increasing irritation at each insane plea pretty much mirrors my own when Big Guy hits hammer mode.
I love that commercial. It cracks me up, but in all comedy, there’s a grain of truth. I found the truth in the Subway ad, and it’s led to a greater spirit of cooperation from the guys.
Honestly, I do say “no” a lot. That’s part of the territory when you’re living with a kid who doesn’t just push boundaries, but tries to plow them down with a Hummer.
I don’t, however, say “no” nearly as often as Big Guy thinks. Is it human nature or Big Guy nature to dwell on the negative? He’ll overlook 3,000 times I say “yes,” because once he gets on a ridiculous-request roll, the “nos” fall like rain.
Can we get a puppy?
Can we skip brushing our teeth just one night?
Can I stay up and watch “Avatar”?
Why are you so bossy?
Because I’m your mother. I’ll confess to cringing on that one. It was near the top of my “things I’ll never say” list.
“I just googled “”strait jacket”" and children and was disappointed. I’d hoped to find a retailer on amazon.com. Instead, I came up with stories about an overly medicated society.
Too bad. I could use a set right about now, sizes smaller and smaller. Maybe in a Thomas pattern for Little Guy and Batman for his brother.
Aw, forget it. Child Protective Services probably would frown on use of restraints to keep your kids in bed. (If you’re reading, CPS, I’m not serious. It’s humor — get it?)
It wouldn’t work anyway. Big Guy, at least, is as creative as he is determined. And then he’d help his brother get out just to show me.
The problem of late has been his brother, and it’s like deja vu all over again. Actually, it’s not deja vu
“It’s after midnight the day before … er, make the day of … Big Guy’s alleged birthday. So what am I doing — why, waiting for the cake to come out of the oven.
I’m not even going to rant at myself this time for procrastinating, because I do it before every holiday, from Valentine’s Day to Halloween, plus birthdays to boot. My intentions always are good but, well, you know.
Instead, I’m going to complain about the three-day Big Guy Fest. Not complain, actually, as much as laugh at myself for the crazy lengths I wind up going to. It blows away my tough-gal image. Steel-coated marshmallow, I am.
Day 1: Family party at Pizza Hot, as Big Guy calls it. A few friends from school invited as
I am a wimp.
A selfish, whiny little wimp who complains about lack of sleep. Who gripes about cleaning a 1,600 square foot house and ever-climbing food bills. Who will quickly complain about 18 months of foot-in-the rib pregnancy. Strike that — 17 months, because both guys were two weeks early.
I am nothing when compared to Michelle Duggar of Arkansas — no word on whether she lives near Opossum Trot — who just announced that bun No. 18 is in the oven.
Michelle’s latest is due New Year’s Day, so no extra tax deduction for this year, dang it. She’s already has spent 135 months pregnant with children range in age from 20 years to nine months.
She and her husband, Jim Bob — definitely a
A new neighbor, whose house is behind ours, was shocked during her evening walk recently to meet us and see the guys.
“There are only two? Really? It sounded like there are at least four.”
Some days it feels like it. Like today. My injury toll:
Mild concussion from a Little Guy head butt. Accidental, I think, resulting from a delusion on his part. “Power Rangers, Jungle Fury. Spirit of the Cheetah.” How he could enunciate that perfectly is beyond me – usually, F’s come out sounding like P’s and R’s like W’s.
Dislocated jaw from basketball with Big Guy, who figured out that if he couldn’t get around me he should instead shoot over. Except he doesn’t like the small basketball that came with their kiddy hoop, so he plays with a soccer ball. It hit me in the face, as visions of Rudy Tomjanovich danced in my head.
Sprained neck after Big Guy jumped off the back of the love seat and (almost) over me as I took too long getting Little Guy’s shoes on.
At least I got something out of it when they decided my back would make a grand drum. Those tiny fists worked all the tightness out of a chronically sore shoulder that no doubt has something to do with carrying a 30-pound purse.
After the neighbor left, I couldn’t decide if her comment was reassuring (good! it’s not just me who thinks they’re rowdy and loud) or embarrassing (if I were a better parent, they wouldn’t be such hellions.)
When we left our heroes, Little Guy’s big-boy bed had just arrived. He hated it. Big Guy, on the other hand, loved it. They’ve been sleeping together since. Most nights, that is – except for three, including last night.
When it comes to discipline, I’m a steel-coated marshmallow. So the first week of the bed-share experiment, I let a nightly gabfest go because I wanted this to work. There are so many advantages to being roommates – learning to share, more brotherly closeness.
All right, I’m lying. I wanted this to work because I lost my computer room when Little Guy moved in, and I want it back.
Honestly, it isn’t Big Guy’s fault he can’t shut up. He’s a blabbermouth by nature. He’ll yak