It’s time to come clean.
No, I don’t have the bodies of three ex husbands buried in my basement - That’s not what that smell is.
I’m not a Secret Agent Spy - That’s not what those handcuffs are for.
And as much fun as it sounds like my boys and I have, and as great a relationship it seems we have ... that’s not always the case.
Sometimes, we argue.
We yell. We say things we shouldn't. We walk away from each other in hurt and anger with a 'Don't talk to me right now!'.
My boys fight. A lot.
It’s the one thing I REALLY wish I could change about their relationship.
People tell me it’s ‘normal’. Siblings fight.
But do they have to do it EVERY. FREAKIN'. DAY?
Do they have to do it to the point where both are yelling, one of them is crying, and I’m ready to lose my mind?
This single parenting thing is hard.
Much harder some days than others.
Those are the days I need to walk away from my kids, and give myself a time out.
Sometimes it's because I'm disappointed in their actions.
Sometimes it's because I'm just SO angry with them.
And sometimes? When they’re being total jerks to each other, and ME?
Nothing else will help but a good cry.
When the boys were younger, they hated to see me cry.
They would watch me during a sad movie, waiting … "is she gonna cry?"
They would look for the signs during an argument with their father … ‘‘is she gonna cry?"
And they would more often than not attempt to stop whatever behaviour was bringing me to the verge of tears and say “Don’t cry Mommy”.
Then, of course, I’d feel guilty about shedding the tears in front of the kids, and immediately the wells would dry up.
Last week, Alec and I were ‘having words’. He was in an argument with his brother and I didn’t feel he was ‘fighting fair’.
If they HAVE to fight, they’re fighting FAIR damnit!
Alec and I had gone round and round in the argument.
I’d had enough, was exhausted, feeling emotionally drained and started to walk away.
From behind me, I heard, ‘Oh, what? You gonna CRY now?!?!’
That one sentence sent my heart into a million tiny pieces, scattering across the kitchen floor.
It wasn’t so much WHAT he said, but HOW he said it.
It was the slight change in tone, small adjustment to the words … that screamed volumes.
Gone was the little boy who didn’t like to see his mother cry.
In his place, stood a smart–mouthed teenager, sneering at the thought of bringing tears to his mother's eyes.
Yeah. Being a parent sucks some days.
Most days, it's tough, yet very rewarding.
But some days, like the ones above, I wonder if I'm ever going to get this motherhood thing right, and if I just should have stuck to fish.
Or a pet rock.
I can't screw up a rock.