This past Tuesday, two days before my eldest daughter turned six, I found myself screaming “Serenity Now” on the ride home from swim lessons.
Big A was being so mean to her little sister, so uncharacteristically bratty and whiny that when she finally said something about how Little A and another kid in her daycare ruined the dresses she had made for her stuffed animal kittens and then proceeded to smack her sister in the head, I responded the only way I knew how.
“Ohmygod, I don’t care,” I yelled. “That is NO excuse for this nonsense. KNOCK IT OFF RIGHT NOW!!!”
My angry mom voice is pretty on point when it needs to be. It shut her up for about 10 minutes.
And then it started back up. All evening it was something. One complaint followed by another.
“Ohmygod, Ohmygod, what the fuck,” I finally said to Mr. D before stepping outside to hit the bowl.
I came back to more fights. Unfinished dinners. Whines and tantrums and smacks and cries.
“Bedtime,” I ordered, around 7:30. “I am so done with hearing you both.”
They then marched upstairs and screamed in bed. Obnoxiously. Incessantly. And it might have been the 35th “MOM!” or the second bong hit, or some combination of the two, but about 15 minutes later, I realized they were literally calling for me. That they needed me. That the only real job of any importance I have is to be there in these moments, the ones where they are at their brattiest, nastiest little selves.