I don’t really like to swear (publicly at least), but the word “mean-y” doesn’t seem to do this situation justice.
And so, it turns out, I am the bitch. And it is extremely likely that you are too. A mean, cruel, unfair, certifiable, undeniable b.i.t.c.h.
A dream crusher. A craving killer. An anti-mess monster. A health advocating, peace-seeking witchy, snitchy, BITCH.
And you know what did it to me?
It’s a look, the look, an eye roll, a grunt of frustration, a stomp of the foot, a fist on the table, a scream, a door slam, or just a plain old, “MOM! You are so mean!!!!” And as my kids mature which often comes with, ahem, a broader vocabulary – you know, more words to throw around, I’d bet they’ll soon have a word to match their feelings of angst: BITCH (oh, but if that word ever leaves their lips they will be sure they haven’t seen the real bitch yet). But honestly, a lot of times, I feel like one, being the one with the final say and all.
I won’t let my kids eat candy for breakfast, and so….
I am the bitch.
I won’t let my kids eat candy just after breakfast.
I am the bitch.
I told my kids to put their laundry away, to brush their teeth, not to handcuff the little brother to the stairs, to finish allll the broccoli on their plate.
And I am the bitch.
When I ask them to wait patiently for my help because I am doing the dishes, making a bed, shoving the leftover peanut butter and jelly crust in my mouth for lunch, collecting soured milk cups from around the house, or texting one of THEIR friend’s moms re: a playdate….
You guessed it, I am the bitch.
I tried to get a splinter out of my son’s finger, to help the other one read, and to feed the little one yogurt. It all ended badly. And I was the bitch.
As parents, we walk a fine line between being an bitch, and not. For example, allow your child to have a lollipop for breakfast = not a bitch; don’t allow your child to have a lollipop for breakfast = bitch. And despite the repercussions on our reputation, most times, we err on the side of bitch, you know, because we want our children to be upstanding citizens, and have nice teeth. But other times we are just too tired for the fight. And we cave. And we relish in the moment of feeling un-bitch-ish. Our kids smother us with love and tell us they love us more than daddy and, you guys, they even crown us “best mom in the world” and all we had to do was let them stay up for an extra show, or buy them Mentos at the supermarket check out, or let them have the freakin’ candy for breakfast. It’s just too easy to be the anti-bitch. But then again: MOTHERHOOD. We have officially become our mothers. They were bitches. I am a bitch. And you are too. Cheers.