I love my children, but they can turn any enjoyable outing into a miserable experience.
Like, why do we take them anywhere? Any amens from the choir out there?
I sat at the table of a German restaurant trying not to speak out loud the curse words that ran through my mind. Directed at my children. Sounds terrible, right?! But as I sent secret text messages to my spouse across the table, every GIF that popped up under the search “aggravated” seemed to fit. Yet it was more than aggravation. It was beyond mere frustration. It was the pot threatening to boil over, the kind of slow roll that only your own offspring could produce. They were exasperating.
They didn’t like the menu. It didn’t have macaroni, after all. Never mind that we had only chosen the restaurant to silence their whines of, “I’m starving! Can’t we find a place to eat already?!”
Never mind that they had grumbled the whole three or four blocks to the downtown area about being tired, chilly, or having sore feet. Never mind that I had brought jackets they forgot to get out of the truck, or comfy sneakers they had refused to change into.
I loved my children soooo much, but if I’m laying it all out for you… sometimes I want to kill them. Like, shaken child syndrome, kill them.
Why must they repeat the same phrase over and over, and yet over again, until I say, “oh yeah. Really? That’s interesting.”
“Hey, Mom. Watch this!”
*child performs some very minor, dance step/jump, or something
“Wow. That’s awesome,” I say.
I love my children soooo much, but dang, sometimes they are total brats. I look at them whining, fighting, complaining, and I want to know who raised these wild animals!
I love my children so much. Like, more than the air I breathe. I would die for them. When they’re sick, I want to take it all on myself. When they’re sleeping, I take photo after photo. I never want to forget! Oh, who am I kidding?! I take pictures of everything. Every day is a memory in the making, and I always want it on slow-mo so I can savor each smile, each giggle, and press into the pages of my heart every adorable, hilarious thing my four year old utters. So many days I wish I could freeze time, keeping them little forever.
But then, the rest of the time I am fantasizing about when they move out. Then my husband and I can go places and enjoy ourselves without complaints. No one will ask me to carry them. No one. No one will drink all my water, or eat all my food. No one will ask me for snacks right after I sit down, interrupt me with some mundane question right when I get on an important call, or turn the backseat of my vehicle into a garbage dump within 3.5 seconds of driving off the car lot.
I know I will cry. I know I will. It will be too quiet, and I’ll be so grateful for all the pictures we took, the places we went, and the fabulous memories we created. I know this, and I repeat it to myself every time I get a little foot in my back when they’re sleeping in my bed. I know that one day that king-sized bed will feel really empty. That’s the only reason they’re still there. I know they desire to please me. That’s why it’s always “hey, mom” and “look at me.” Even when I’m looking at her do the same thing I just watched her do thirty seconds prior. I know the reasons, and yes, it makes me feel good. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t make me a little twitchy, though. Just saying.
I love my children so much, but when I’m picking up the same mess for the eight millionth time, that day, yeah, I want to do a Calgon, take me away, one way ticket to anywhere else.
I love my children so much, but sometimes I don’t like them that much. They are rude, selfish, annoying little monsters, but they’re all mine. So you can’t call them any of that. Ever.
Because they’re loud, but they’re wonderful. They’re clingy, but they’re cuddly. They’re exasperating, but so darn cute. They’re awful, but they’re perfect. And they’re raucous, yet they’re my very best thing that I’ve ever made. They make me want to pull my hair out, but then they also make me beam with pride. They make me want to squeeze them to death! And then they make me want to squeeze them tight and never let them go. They make me cry in frustration, cry over my supposed failures, and cry over the love I have for them that my heart can’t possibly contain. It’s too much.
I love my children so much, but at the end of the day, I love to love them from the other room.
I love my children so much, but parenting is hard.
I love my children so much, and each day I pray for wisdom to help raise them into the young women God has in mind.
I love my children so much, but being a parent isn’t for the faint of heart.
I love my children so much, and I guess that’s enough for today.