Because I’m the boss… December 14, 2011

He's pissed...and not wearing any pants. that's what happens when he gets angry. He strips.

On my drive home yesterday, I came up with an awesome way to explain Unconditional Parenting to y’all.

Unconditional Parenting is almost exactly like being a good manager.
• You talk to your children like they are adults that can make their own choices, while giving clear guidelines for behavior and setting reasonable expectations.
• You LISTEN intently, repeat what was said so you are sure you understand the question, and help the person come up with a reasonable solution to their problem.
• You listen to their complaints and validate their feelings.
• You consider making adjustments when the team is not working at their full potential.
• You are always changing and growing with your team, working with their strengths and weaknesses.
• You are always available to talk, and you ask what your child needs from you in order for us to be successful.

I find myself dipping into my old bag of management tricks often when I’m working with my kids, and as they grow, they respond really well to these techniques.

It can be so tempting to speak with exasperation, or raise your voice, or be impatient with your kids. Most of the time, I feel like Jekyll and Hyde. I switch from being tolerant, understanding, explaining every detail, and managing their conflicting needs to being the most impatient, demanding and irritable mother on the planet. This usually happens when I am hungry, tired, or solo parenting for the day.

If you also find yourself sassing back at your 4 year old, I really really understand.

What usually helps me is a glass of red wine and a cuddle. Slow breathing, holding my kids tight and ignoring the to do list running through my head makes a world of difference. When we are back on track, I try my hardest to be a good manager; kind, understanding, firm, and guiding my kids through whatever totally ridiculous shit they insist on dragging me into….and sometimes it even works!

grabby and crabby September 8, 2011

I am insanely jealous of single people that live alone.

I love my children. I love my husband. I like my cats a whole lot. I also would like to be by my fucking self occasionally.

From the moment I arrive home, Rhys begins his whine. This isn’t just any whine, of course. The pitch is at dog whistle level, except only parents can hear it, and it brings my heart rate up to dangerous levels.

Next comes the wrap. He grabs hold of my legs, puts his face into my pants, and the whine grows steadily louder. I have JUST walked in the door. My bags have yet to be dropped. Moments earlier, he was laughing on the lawn with the neighbor boy and his sister. It is I that causes his such tremendous anguish for this tiny person. If I pay attention to anyone else, the whole fucking show is over, my friends.

Uncontrollable sobbing.

Flailing.

More whining.

Hitting whoever happens to be between him and I.

Senseless acts of destruction, just to get my attention.

He holds my hand, drags me to and fro, with the whine starting up is my fingers even THINK of loosening from his tiny, sweaty paw. He sits in my lap. Actually, it’s not sitting as much as flipping over, wiggling around, jumping up and down, climbing around my neck. Anything but sitting, actually.

I’m patient. Understanding. I know I’ve been gone for 12 hours. I know I’m missed. I’m aware that his version of the universe, he is the sun,  I am the earth, and I need HIM to survive. He’s almost 3. His world is small. I get it.

I’ve been trying so hard to focus on my kids when I get home. My house is a disaster, but there have been many fewer disasters since the kids of the house feels tended to. Which is awesome. Except…

Really, folks, I just want to put on my fucking pajamas without someone making a comment about the fact that my boobs used provide their breakfast. Pour a glass of wine WITHOUT a battle over which child gets to hold the glass. Come home, plop on the couch, and do nothing (NOTHING) but watch a shitty movie.

***Le sigh***

It’s been a week of guilt about how resentful I am. My poor boy needs to hang from his momma like a little monkey just as much as I need my space. He’s growing, and I’m gone so much of every day.

Most weeks, I lose my shit at least once, yell “LEAVE ME ALONE FOR A SECOND” and lock the bathroom door( I never get to pee alone)  with him screaming my name and pounding with all his might, jiggling the doorknob and weeping “moooma, let me in!”                       Yes, weekly.                              (Does this make me a shitty parent? I don’t think so. More parents should talk about the completely childish responses they have to their children’s temper tantrums.In fact, I want a You tube channel of adult temper tantrums. Million dollar idea.)

This week is actually a success because he hasn’t SEEN my need for space. I’ve put him first every moment he’s with me. It hasn’t been too bad. I’m successfully unconditionally parenting this week, and we are all in tact. Except there is one more week day in the week.  I’m already tired. And I feel like my patience is getting the craziest workout ever.

I’m at risk of losing my shit any moment. So, send me your good vibes, folks, because I feel this tea kettle about to boil over!