In Which I Learn Something About Myself

I spent this last weekend traveling with my parents and my two children. It has been an eye-opening experience.

Mostly, in that I have discovered that I am WAY too tightly wound.

I know. Hard to believe, huh?

My son has been impatient. With everything. In response, I have been very impatient with his lack of patience. His whining (or whinging, for my UK peeps) has set my last nerve screaming for Prozac.

On our trip to the amusement park, he wanted to do the diggers. 30 seconds after finishing, it was “WHENCANWESEETHEGIRAFFES?WHEREARETHEGIRAFFES?ARETHEGIRAFFESTHISWAY?IDONTWANNAGOTHISWAY!” and then once we finally go to the giraffes – because I wasn’t following the Boo plan of the park, or we’d be leapfrogging from place to place – he was whining about the next thing he HAD to see. NOW. I’m trying to remind myself what it was like to be soooo excited (and that the Hubs did the EXACT same thing when I took him to Disneyland for the first time.) However, my blood pressure rose in direct correlation with the waning of my patience; i just wanted him. To. Stop.

Not pretty.

My daughter, who doesn’t eat ANYTHING but, apparently, bread, cheese, hot dogs, green vegetables, baked beans and occasionally chips, was upset because her cheeseburger came with meat. (She thought a cheeseburger was, um, bun and, well, cheese. ???!!?!?)  I don’t want to cater to her picky eating but at the same time, I do need her to eat something.

I’m frustrated with my lack of patience with them at mealtimes – when they are clearly tired, and I’m tired too, so I should know how they feel. I should be able to empathize and keep my patience. But, you know, tired. Not perfect.

But no, I worry about ruining the dining experience of those around me. About being one of THOSE people who take their kids to dinner too late, when they are exhausted and obviously should have been fed HOURS earlier – and the poor child cannot help but meltdown. (It wasn’t late when we started out for dinner – it was actually quite early, but by the time we found someplace to eat and were served, she was toast.)

As I was riding carnival rides with my kids, driving the go-cart, I was really having FUN. Why haven’t we done this more? It hit me on lap 8 that I haven’t really let myself have fun lately, as I have RESPONSIBILITY.

My kids get home from school about 3:30. They are in bed around 7pm. This does not leave too much together time. I’ve been letting other things get in the way.

Screw that. I’m tired of being Type A. I want to not care so much about other stuff. Its ok to pile on the couch and snuggle and watch movies all afternoon and stuff ourselves with popcorn. Let them eat ice cream for dinner every now and again. Or cereal. (Even – gasp – Frosties!)  Stay up late occasionally, and to hell* with the morning after. (*and if you could see my bambinos after a late evening, you would really be questioning the sanity of that statement)

I know my children love me. But lately, I’ve been really anal scowly shrewish not fun.

I don’t want them thinking “She loved me, but she was always grumpy/scowling/nagging/(insert negative attribute here).”

I don’t want my tombstone to read “she was good at planning”.

There hasn’t been a lot of playtime with mom in the past few weeks. Nor silliness. Nor glitter.


Life is too short.

I don’t like myself much these past few weeks.

All I really want my kids to think is this:

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