I'm so tired of being the mom. I'm tired of being the walking target of venom spitting children who resent washing dishes.
Hoping to slow the flow of snake spit, I asked, "When was the last time you helped with the dishes.?"
"Last week!"
We're all indignant and equally sure of our stance that once a week is too/is not enough. So they are firing looks that could kill and I feel myself hardening around the edges.
Neither of us is going to let the other "walk all over me."
I want to be the nice mommy, the glowing, smiling, soft-spoken lady escorting perfectly coiffed, immaculately dressed, disgustingly polite children through the art museum. I want to bake cookies in a sterile kitchen and have no dirty bowls when I am done. I want a picture perfect house and garden that are always photographer ready.
Instead I am raising kids who hate bathing, unless it's in the creek. Who host, and win, belching contests. Who can be persuaded to change clothes every three days...or so. They do love art museums, though. When I bake, I usually have to search for baking supplies. But the bowl is licked clean before the cookies are done. Often before I'm done spooning the dough out.
And, you know, I'd rather live than wait for a photographer to validate our existence. I guess motherhood is not as bad as it seems some days. I just need a little cooperation when it comes time to wash the dishes.
Mima's Notes:
This battle never ended. No one has ever willingly done dishes at my house. But the teenaged years did hit, and attitudes toward grooming changed without my persistent nagging.
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