It has come to my attention that thanks to this post and this one, I’ve sort of been passing myself off as this super parent; this know-it-all, done-it-all, have-all-the-answers-to-the-hard-questions parent.
Although I could write several posts on things that I do that will require my children spend their university tuition on therapy instead, I will give you an example of how finer parenting skills, which I currently don’t possess, could prevent this.
This is me in the morning…
image from here
…no, it’s not really me, I’m far scarier looking than her, and I wear an old ratty nightie on which all the buttons have gone missing.
But that’s how I feel in the morning.
I can’t wake up.
I don’t want to talk.
And thinking is not on the agenda until a couple of hours have passed.
Unfortunately, I have four kids I have to get off to school in the morning.
So thinking, or at the very least, speech are somewhat necessary to the progression of events.
The morning usually starts off innocently enough.
For example, this morning I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth.
I’m the first one up. I haven’t roused anyone yet because I like to be able to at least get this one task out of the way before being engulfed by conversation.
No such luck though.
Terran, the 7 year old, comes in to pee.
While he’s peeing, he says this, “Mom, would you rather freeze to death or burn to death?”
My reply: “Don’t forget to flush the toilet.”
Zoe comes in, and asks, “Which would be worse? Freezing to death or burning to death?”
I reply, “Get out.”
Zoe plugs in the hair straightener and hands it to me, adding, “Open your eyes Mom. I don’t want you to burn my ear again.”
I open one eye.
We go down to the kitchen for breakfast.
Terran asks for a bagel with cream cheese.
I pour him Fruit Loops.
He says, “Mom, I wanted a bagel.”
I respond, “Where’s your backpack?”
He says again, “Mom, I wanted a bagel. You gave me cereal.”
I say, “And make sure you don’t forget your snowpants. It’s cold out there.”
I give Zoe a bagel with cream cheese.
She says, “Mom, I hate bagels. I wanted Fruit Loops.”
I reply, “Make sure your geometry homework is in your school bag.”
They swap breakfasts.
Terran is talking about his teacher, something about a village out of boxes that they’re making in art class.
I’m not certain as I’m half-laying on the counter top, half standing up, hoping for 2-3 more minutes of sleep.
He says, “So will you come and see it when it’s finished?”
I reply from my comfortable position on the counter, “I think Santa is coming to the mall this weekend.”
Jackson comes up for breakfast.
He sits down at the table.
Breakfast conversation ensues although I don’t take part because I am unable to formulate full thoughts just yet.
Jackson says, “Last year in sex-ed, my teacher told us to write one question down on a piece of paper, leave it anonymous, and he would answer it. One of the questions was: what does sperm taste like? He said it tasted like protein. Do you think it tastes like protein, Mom?”
Normally, like when I’m actually awake, I would have been all over that question. Not that I know what sperm tastes like MY MOTHER READS THIS BLOG I would have been explaining the physiological process involved in the production of sperm.
This morning, however, I say, “Syrup.”
Jackson replies, “Syrup? Sperm tastes like syrup?”
I say, “Do you want syrup on your waffles?”
Jackson shakes his head, “I never asked for waffles. I wanted a bagel.”
“Here,” I respond, clunking the plate in front of him, “Eat your waffles.”
But as I’m walking back upstairs to put some clothes on, through the fog that is my brain, I do have one clear thought: “Protein!…ya, right…everyone knows it’s salty.”