This is the kind of mother I am:
My children are not my friends.
I have friends.
They have friends.
The two shall not meet.
I have a full life outside of being a mother.
I don’t allow my kids to talk back. If you have a point that you want to dispute respectfully, then go for it, otherwise, shut up.
The kids are not given options.
In my house, you do as you’re told, or give me everything you own, and it goes to the less fortunate.
The word “hate” is not tolerated. Nor are the words “stupid” and “idiot.”
They can say asshole, however, but not to describe a person, only when referencing the actual orifice.
Oddly enough, though, I’ve never heard any of my children use this term. Instead they seem partial to “butthole.”
I won’t lie: I’m a little disappointed about this.
I am not a sacrificial mother. This means that if there is one pickle left in the jar, and I want it, then I get it. This also applies to the last chocolate in the box, the last candy in the bag, the last piece of gum in the pack, and/or the last slice of the pizza.
Some would call this selfish.
I call this the I-pushed-a-watermelon-out-of-an-opening-the-size-of-a-dime clause.
My kids don’t swear.
They don’t disobey.
And they very rarely even fight with each other.
Other than the occasional porn site being accessed by the 13 year old, I have really good kids.
Of course I can’t be with them 24 hours a day, so I can’t completely rule out a life of crime, but so far I feel pretty confident that none of them is involved in drug trafficking or oral-sex rings.
…now this is the part where I fall off the proverbial horse…
One of the rules in our home is that birthday parties; the big ones with lots of friends, games, pizza, prizes, and kick-ass loot bags to shame all others, end on the 10th birthday.
This means that for the 11th birthday and those afterwards, we have a family get-together with cake and the birthday child’s meal of choice.
But no more parties.
The other rule is that we don’t, under any circumstances do slumber parties.
One friend for a sleepover is ok.
Two friends for a sleepover is NOT ok.
Because I was sleep deprived for nine consecutive years.
I don’t mean I was awoken occasionally by a sick child.
I don’t mean that I woke up with a newborn for a few months then had a break until the next baby came along.
I mean I was getting up pretty much every 3-4 hours for nine consecutive years.
Now all my kids sleep through the night.
I rarely have to get up with any of them.
Even the youngest can maneuver himself to the toilet before vomiting, wipe his own brow, clean his own face, wipe his own shitty ass, and return to his bed without disturbing me during a bout with the stomach flu.
However, under pressure from a woman I know who insist childhood be one big, unforgettable fucken memory of bliss, I broke the cardinal rule about the birthday party and the slumber party.
Zoe, my now 11 year old, had five friends for supper and a movie to celebrate her special day.
Then she had two of those friends back at the house for a sleepover.
neurotic woman had made the comment to me: “Come on! Slumber parties! Every child should get to experience a slumber party.”
Well every child also deserves a mother who doesn’t hate them the day after the slumber party because she was awoken at 2:30am by the sound of thumping, music, and giggling, and upon entering the room where the noise was coming from, was greeted by three prepubescent girls painting their faces as tigers.
This is not cute at 2:30am.
Suffice it to say, I’m going back to my own rules.
And will no longer feel sorry for mothers who are trying to recreate the childhood they never had by making snowcones and cupcakes in the wee hours of the morning when the rest of the NORMAL people are sleeping.