Parenthood is essentially an exercise in determining how much grief you can take.
My almost-four-year-old is all about testing boundaries. I suppose I’ll be enjoying this peachy behavior for the next 15 or so years.
My son is no better, but in the climbing furniture and handless somersault kind of way. The only other difference is he’s too little (and not yet wily enough) to throw me under the bus.
Today was a work-from-home day for me, which means Grammy (who is much more permissive than mommy) was on rugrat duty. What happens when Grammy is on duty? The rugrats try to get away with more. So imagine their dismay when mommy pops her head in from working and lays down the law. Cue the #badmommy vibes all around.
How much easier would it be to just take the whateverrrr approach and let them have what they want? Wouldn’t that be just dandy? Cookies? You got it! Another movie? No problem! Dive bomb head first off of the table? Be my guest!
You know what would happen then? They wouldn’t whine or tantrum. Can you imagine a day without any whining or tantruming? I sure as hell can’t. Wouldn’t that be glorious?
Except, it wouldn’t be. Because someone would get hurt or sick. Fast forward a few years, and I’d have bratty adolescents, then spoiled teenagers, and then entitled adults. Then I’d be that mom. I don’t want to be that mom. No one wants to be that mom.
So, kids, go forth and play your world’s tiniest violins. Throw me under the bus. Call me a bad mommy.
You’ll still love me at the end of the day. You’ll love me even more when you’re well-adjusted and self-sufficient adults. I’ll just keep saying “no” and put in some earplugs.