The more you give, the more they take. I think that’s one of those rules of humanness that I fail to absorb. The boyfriend who cheats and you give another chance to? He might just cheat on you again (no boyfriend is cheating on me, now, worry not). The child you give—toy, staying up late privilege, sushi, or money for ingredient purchase at the farmers’ market—that child may tantrum in whatever manner, anyway. You think benefit of the doubt is a two-way street and that’s not necessarily the case.
I let the kids—there were many of them downstairs, all the male ones plus a couple of friends—stay up later than me last night. I was tired. I conked out. Less than an hour later I was woken up—two feuding teenage brothers, who woke up the little sister (after I got her to bed at 8:14 thank you very much). I was in that deep sleep window when to be woken meant my cognitive and emotional abilities were still logy and nonfunctional. So, mostly I yelled at them to get the hell out.
I do not believe my “duties” extend to conflict resolution after midnight. Clearly, my children disagreed and my dear husband is in Boston at the Antiquarian Book Fair. I want to go away for work; if you hear of any opportunities, please let me know ASAP (must include a very quiet hotel room).
Sparing our collective dignity, I will say this: I do not know how to calmly or effectively stand my ground. And my pushover tendencies, along with my seemingly round-the-clock availability as a parent are biting me on the a*#.
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The little girl’s gift of two hand-me-down leotards in the mail seemed so simple in comparison. She has, I learned last night, not only an active fantasy about going to ballet class (we knew about that) but an imaginary ballet teacher. This winter, I’m going to turn fantasy into reality and get that little gal into a dance class.
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I linked to this article in Teaching Tolerance earlier this week, and am calling your attention to it again, because my pink and purple Abby Cadabby, princess and fairy and ballerina gal is both “just her” and a construct of all the pink, pretty, marketed girly-ish-ness she’s prey to.
In contrast, Holyoke’s new mayor works against type. It’s the story in politics to read about this week—and just feel… great.
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This morning, very reluctantly, the chef washed a very little bit of the overall mess he created. And the mama, honestly, also very reluctantly, made waffles.
