Fear Me, Dammit.
/I want my children to grow up to be happy, healthy, productive members of society who never have to see the inside of a shrink's office or a prison cell.
I also want my kids to like me and think I'm the coolest mom on Earth, worshipping my every move while putting me first at all costs and maybe at the expense of future in-laws who will hate me and stick pins in a voodoo doll made in my likeness.
Ya. So therapy may be in their futures after all. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree and all that...
In the meantime, when I'm not brainwashing them into idolizing me and overlooking my vast array of parental flaws, I want them to hold a healthy dose of fear in their teeny tiny little hearts. Fear of pissing off their lovely and awe-inspiring mother and having to face the hidden monster of wrath that lay beneath my skin.
Call me old fashioned but there is something to be said for having a little fear for one's parents. I know I used to fear having to face my angry and disappointed father after I snuck out of the house with my girl friend, got drunk with her on vodka shooters and then found our sorry asses abandoned in the middle of nowhere. I had to call my dad to pick us up in the dead of the night after our buddies forgot about us and took off.
I still remember swallowing my fear and making that phone call. I also remember leaning over and puking up my innards all over the interior of his brand new truck on the way home.
I would have feared the repercussions of tossing my cookies but luckily for me I was drunk and I passed out before we got home.
If I had any sense of fear in my head I would have stayed awake all night and prayed for forgiveness instead of sawing logs only to be woken up four hours later at the crack of dawn by a deceptively happy father.
Not only did he make me scrub out hours old vomit from the inside of his truck with a toothbrush but when I finished that grim task while still slightly drunk he made me and my girlfriend strip the varnish off our fence and then restain the entire thing during the heat of the day.
I've never been so hung over in my life. The fumes and my killer hangover just about killed me.
If I had any sense at all, I would have lived in fear of my father's revenge before ever downing that first vodka shooter.
So ya, I want my kids to have a healthy dose of fear of me in the back of their heads as they go about their daily business of treating me like the wanna-be rockstar I am and maternal queen I demand to be.
Lately, with their father gone so often and for such long stretches, a little fear would serve all of us well. It would save my children from having to watch me rip out my hair as I try to get them to do something and it would certainly save my vocal cords as I seem to spend most of my time repeating nurturing commands at a high noise decibel which seem to go unnoticed by everyone except for my dog.
How I love thee, Nixon. Thank God you listen to me. And love me. Even if you do lick your own arse before bestowing a kiss on me.
That's right, at least YOU love me.
In other words, my kids don't listen to me. Unless I'm dangling icecream in front of their noses or wielding a large roll of duct tape and sporting an evil glint in my eye.
For the past week, I have been trying to get my kids to clean up their rooms. As children, they don't understand why they shouldn't be allowed to live like pigs wallowing in their own filth.
Call me crazy, but I would really rather not have my home overrun with ants or mice.
It has been a vicious circle of me asking politely; repeating said request a little louder yet no less polite; ditching the politeness while starting to yell; yelling at them as steam comes out of my ears until finally my head pops off and rolls under one of their filthy beds and my eyes start to get nibbled on by what ever hairy thing lives under the bed.
Good times.
Yesterday, my darling children decided to amp it up a notch, in a game of 'let's see how far we can push mom before she reaches for her wine glass.' Made even more fun by the fact my sister was over to witness the fun.
Frac was in fine form. He took great pleasure in rolling his beady little eyes at me parroting back my every word in a ballsy, completely disrespectful manner.
When I threatened to take the door off his room so he couldn't hide his dirty ways behind it, he huffed indignantly at me that I had "no business even going into his room" (I was looking for dirty laundry) as it was "his personal space."
And then he informed me that even if I managed to take off his door he would just put it back on because "he knows more about power tools and fixing things as a ten year old boy then I will ever know in my entire life time as a female."
It was right about then my sister's eyes popped out of her head and rolled down my driveway.
As Frac ran outside to enjoy the victory of telling his mother off and living to brag about it, my sister hastily scooped up her eyeballs, dusted them off, pushed them back in and then looked at me and said rather incredulously, "I can't believe you let him talk to you like that and get away with it!!"
She then reached over to feel my forehead to see if I was suffering from a mysterious fever because normally I would have made him eat his disrespectful words while licking my feet clean with his tongue.
"You know Sis, Boo has been gone for three weeks now. Three long weeks of me parenting two preteens by myself and trying to get them to listen to me. I've hit a wall. I just don't care tonight. I need a mommy break."
"Still Tanis, you shouldn't let him get away with behaviour like that. You have to let them know who's boss so they don't morph into neighbourhood drug dealers who end up pimping you out at the highest bidder to some skeevy john," my sister worried.
Just then my lovely children, who were really on a roll, opened up the front door, stuck out their tongues at me and wiggled their little asses in our direction as if to say "Who's your momma now beyotch?" and then ran away giggling like loons.
My sister raised her eyeballs and looked at me with disbelief. Any respect she had for me as a parent was quickly slipping away.
I watched my children play and I turned to my sister and shook my head.
"I know, but I'm so tired. Besides, I know something they don't know."
"Oh yeah, what's that?"
"Their father should be rolling up the driveway in about five minutes. They're dead kids walking. They just don't know it yet." Heh.
Just then, Boo's car pulled to turn into our driveway. I heard the familiar rumble of his car's engine so my sister and I stood up to go outside.
Fric and Frac stood there with their mouths hanging open. "You tricked me!" Frac cried. "You called DAD!"
Fric quickly made a beeline to her bedroom to start shoving things under her bed to make her room seem clean (smart kid) while Frac stood there with his bottom lip quivering.
His aunt looked at him and grinned and then tousled his hair as she told him she was leaving because she didn't want to stick around to watch his father rip off his arms and beat him with them. She had a weak stomach she said as she beat a hasty retreat to her car while nodding hello to Boo.
Frac burst into full fledged tears and then ran to hide in the washroom to pray for mercy like the scared little schoolboy he is.
While I am thankful for Boo's safe arrival home and to have some much needed parental relief, I can't help be but a smidge annoyed.
I want my children to tremble with fear when I pull into the driveway.
I want my children to run and hide in the bathroom rather than face a look of disappointment in my eyes.
I want my presence to be enough to snap my children into model behaviour; inspire them to be good as gold.
I want to be able to discipline my children with just a look.
Like Boo.
Instead, I get my kids mooning their cute little asses in my face as they laugh like hyenas.
I'm sure my mother would say something about karma and what goes around, comes around, but I can't hear it.
I'm too busy hiding in the pantry with a bottle of red with my fingers in my ears, chanting "lalalalaala" while my husband gets all draconian on my children's arses.
Harumph.
I also want my kids to like me and think I'm the coolest mom on Earth, worshipping my every move while putting me first at all costs and maybe at the expense of future in-laws who will hate me and stick pins in a voodoo doll made in my likeness.
Ya. So therapy may be in their futures after all. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree and all that...
In the meantime, when I'm not brainwashing them into idolizing me and overlooking my vast array of parental flaws, I want them to hold a healthy dose of fear in their teeny tiny little hearts. Fear of pissing off their lovely and awe-inspiring mother and having to face the hidden monster of wrath that lay beneath my skin.
Call me old fashioned but there is something to be said for having a little fear for one's parents. I know I used to fear having to face my angry and disappointed father after I snuck out of the house with my girl friend, got drunk with her on vodka shooters and then found our sorry asses abandoned in the middle of nowhere. I had to call my dad to pick us up in the dead of the night after our buddies forgot about us and took off.
I still remember swallowing my fear and making that phone call. I also remember leaning over and puking up my innards all over the interior of his brand new truck on the way home.
I would have feared the repercussions of tossing my cookies but luckily for me I was drunk and I passed out before we got home.
If I had any sense
Not only did he make me scrub out hours old vomit from the inside of his truck with a toothbrush but when I finished that grim task while still slightly drunk he made me and my girlfriend strip the varnish off our fence and then restain the entire thing during the heat of the day.
I've never been so hung over in my life. The fumes and my killer hangover just about killed me.
If I had any sense at all, I would have lived in fear of my father's revenge before ever downing that first vodka shooter.
So ya, I want my kids to have a healthy dose of fear of me in the back of their heads as they go about their daily business of treating me like the wanna-be rockstar I am and maternal queen I demand to be.
Lately, with their father gone so often and for such long stretches, a little fear would serve all of us well. It would save my children from having to watch me rip out my hair as I try to get them to do something and it would certainly save my vocal cords as I seem to spend most of my time repeating nurturing commands at a high noise decibel which seem to go unnoticed by everyone except for my dog.
How I love thee, Nixon. Thank God you listen to me. And love me. Even if you do lick your own arse before bestowing a kiss on me.
In other words, my kids don't listen to me. Unless I'm dangling icecream in front of their noses or wielding a large roll of duct tape and sporting an evil glint in my eye.
For the past week, I have been trying to get my kids to clean up their rooms. As children, they don't understand why they shouldn't be allowed to live like pigs wallowing in their own filth.
Call me crazy, but I would really rather not have my home overrun with ants or mice.
It has been a vicious circle of me asking politely; repeating said request a little louder yet no less polite; ditching the politeness while starting to yell; yelling at them as steam comes out of my ears until finally my head pops off and rolls under one of their filthy beds and my eyes start to get nibbled on by what ever hairy thing lives under the bed.
Good times.
Yesterday, my darling children decided to amp it up a notch, in a game of 'let's see how far we can push mom before she reaches for her wine glass.' Made even more fun by the fact my sister was over to witness the fun.
Frac was in fine form. He took great pleasure in rolling his beady little eyes at me parroting back my every word in a ballsy, completely disrespectful manner.
When I threatened to take the door off his room so he couldn't hide his dirty ways behind it, he huffed indignantly at me that I had "no business even going into his room" (I was looking for dirty laundry) as it was "his personal space."
And then he informed me that even if I managed to take off his door he would just put it back on because "he knows more about power tools and fixing things as a ten year old boy then I will ever know in my entire life time as a female."
It was right about then my sister's eyes popped out of her head and rolled down my driveway.
As Frac ran outside to enjoy the victory of telling his mother off and living to brag about it, my sister hastily scooped up her eyeballs, dusted them off, pushed them back in and then looked at me and said rather incredulously, "I can't believe you let him talk to you like that and get away with it!!"
She then reached over to feel my forehead to see if I was suffering from a mysterious fever because normally I would have made him eat his disrespectful words while licking my feet clean with his tongue.
"You know Sis, Boo has been gone for three weeks now. Three long weeks of me parenting two preteens by myself and trying to get them to listen to me. I've hit a wall. I just don't care tonight. I need a mommy break."
"Still Tanis, you shouldn't let him get away with behaviour like that. You have to let them know who's boss so they don't morph into neighbourhood drug dealers who end up pimping you out at the highest bidder to some skeevy john," my sister worried.
Just then my lovely children, who were really on a roll, opened up the front door, stuck out their tongues at me and wiggled their little asses in our direction as if to say "Who's your momma now beyotch?" and then ran away giggling like loons.
My sister raised her eyeballs and looked at me with disbelief. Any respect she had for me as a parent was quickly slipping away.
I watched my children play and I turned to my sister and shook my head.
"I know, but I'm so tired. Besides, I know something they don't know."
"Oh yeah, what's that?"
"Their father should be rolling up the driveway in about five minutes. They're dead kids walking. They just don't know it yet." Heh.
Just then, Boo's car pulled to turn into our driveway. I heard the familiar rumble of his car's engine so my sister and I stood up to go outside.
Fric and Frac stood there with their mouths hanging open. "You tricked me!" Frac cried. "You called DAD!"
Fric quickly made a beeline to her bedroom to start shoving things under her bed to make her room seem clean (smart kid) while Frac stood there with his bottom lip quivering.
His aunt looked at him and grinned and then tousled his hair as she told him she was leaving because she didn't want to stick around to watch his father rip off his arms and beat him with them. She had a weak stomach she said as she beat a hasty retreat to her car while nodding hello to Boo.
Frac burst into full fledged tears and then ran to hide in the washroom to pray for mercy like the scared little schoolboy he is.
While I am thankful for Boo's safe arrival home and to have some much needed parental relief, I can't help be but a smidge annoyed.
I want my children to tremble with fear when I pull into the driveway.
I want my children to run and hide in the bathroom rather than face a look of disappointment in my eyes.
I want my presence to be enough to snap my children into model behaviour; inspire them to be good as gold.
I want to be able to discipline my children with just a look.
Like Boo.
Instead, I get my kids mooning their cute little asses in my face as they laugh like hyenas.
I'm sure my mother would say something about karma and what goes around, comes around, but I can't hear it.
I'm too busy hiding in the pantry with a bottle of red with my fingers in my ears, chanting "lalalalaala" while my husband gets all draconian on my children's arses.
Harumph.