Mean Mom

When my children heard about the popcorn incident, they universally agreed that yes, their mother is a self-absorbed, hard-hearted lout.  And they backed up their stance with concrete examples.  Their biggest beef is how I treat "illness and injury."  I put illness and injury in quotes because the illnesses and injuries are usually fake.  Or at the very least, highly exaggerated.

"Mom, my knee has been hurting for, like, a month."
"It sounds like you're not getting enough sleep.  I want you to go to bed right now."

"Mom, I have the worst headache!"
"Well, you're obviously not drinking enough water.  Drink a big glass of water and then go to bed.  Because you're probably not getting enough sleep."

"Mom, I can't go to school.  I've been throwing up!"
"Well, that's probably because you didn't go to bed when I said, and you didn't drink enough water.  If you're staying home from school, you'd better go back to bed.  or no, don't go back to bed yet.  I'll need you to watch the kids while I run to the shop."

Notice how all of these little gems of wisdom center around getting more sleep.  That's so that I can enjoy more awake hours without injured and sickly children, while I'm staying up until midnight, getting up in the night with babies and waking up at 6.  I don't need sleep.  It's just other people who need sleep.  I function on grit and snarkiness.

I'm also not very good at nurturing children through food.  I noticed this morning that someone had tried to eat a bowl of cereal using a bamboo shishkabob skewer.  Not only did I not make breakfast, I didn't even provide any clean silverware.  I though if the children had to make their own breakfast, they would learn skills.  Obviously not, if they're trying to harpoon their Honey Bunches of Oats.  They're just turning into wild animals who probably have rabies because I don't take their maladies seriously.  ("Mom, I'm foaming at the mouth."  "Well, you probably brushed your teeth for too long.  Here's a washcloth.  You'll feel less rabid after a good night's sleep.")

If there is one thing I am good at as a parent, it's getting my kids to their lessons.

"Mom, I think I'm going to throw up."
"Great.  Grab a bucket and get your leotard on.  Let's go."

"Mom, my eyes are swollen shut,  I think I have pink eye."
"Good thing you have the music memorized.  Get your violin and for heaven's sake, don't say the words "pink eye" to anyone.  Take these sunglasses and get in the car."

In a whisper, "Mom, my throat is killing and I can't breathe."
"Wow, it's a good thing you play the cello and not the flute!  Get a glass of water and let's go.  You can rest when we get home.  After jazz, tonight, I mean."
"But my throat hurts!"
"So don't dance on it.  Use your legs.  Your legs don't hurt, do they?"

Last week, Freestone was coughing on the way to violin.  I said, "Don't be coughing during your violin lesson."  He answered, "Mom, you're not in charge of the laws of physics."  I'm not sure what he meant by that, but I'm pretty sure I AM in charge of the laws of physics, at least as far as they apply to my children.  He didn't cough during the lesson, which just proves that he was being over-dramatic by coughing in the car.

It's sad, the legacy I'm leaving my kids.  Last night, Ari complained that her thigh muscles were sore.  All the other kids, in unison, heaved a weary sigh and said, "Eat a banana."

She did.  On a bamboo skewer.