Tuesday, July 16, 2013

Spray It Don't Say It

Is it really so wrong to use a water gun to shoot Bubba and the Princess in the face each time they misbehave?  To stand my ground as a mommy and reclaim my rightful place as the head of the household (when hubby’s not around anyway), the keeper of the peace, and the supreme authority over all things pint-sized and mad as hell? I think not and before you go getting all wild and crazy on my Facebook page, let me elaborate.  These days, I feel I have no other recourse.  So first let me provide a bit of background for our current state of affairs.  The PJ is quite collaborative and agreeable these days.  He has officially “turned a corner” as we say in the world of toddlers and tiaras.  But with the Princess, I have officially hit rock bottom.  The lectures are no longer working.  The time outs have run their course.  I have banished each and every “favorite” toy to the top shelf of my closet.  Even the “Here I am, on your level, looking at you eye-to-eye” hugs seem to have lost their healing power.  I can no longer compete with the tantrums that come at 10 minute intervals and last 56 minutes.  My attempts to reason have been met with a mountain of insults, no, a mountain range of insults.  I’m an English major with an extensive vocabulary and no words.  Are they too big for the five S’s?  Can I still swaddle them (without a visit from the cops)?  And let me be clear that I am NOT asking for advice.  As it was with the colic that resolved only when it was damn good and ready to, I.Have.Tried.Everything.  Or maybe not.  And so it is that I am currently mulling over the idea of adding a blinged out holster which will house a very efficient and intimidating water gun to my wardrobe.  I will let you know how I fare when my little experiment is well underway.  

Sometimes when I get so caught up in the daily battles I lose sight of just how significant the war is.  I ought to be wearing fatigues, enlisting in training camps, and stockpiling supplies for the long haul.  Parenting is no easy undertaking.  I’m fighting for the future of my babies, for their health, their minds, and their souls.  You see, for some wild reason my Heavenly Father has appointed me Commander and deemed me capable of giving them breath, life and a voice and teaching them how to use them in a way that not only glorifies Him but touches the lives of each and every soul they encounter along their journey into His arms for all eternity.  The influences that will go before them, walk beside them and try to trip them up are not minor nuisances; they are tools and weapons of an enemy who fancies himself quite powerful and is not far off the mark.  Woe to me if I fail at this challenge!  And so it is that the task of suiting up my little soldiers, outlining for them the game plan, tending to their battle scars and inspiring them to press on until the war is over has fallen to me.  What I do with it is entirely within my means.  I can read books and educate myself on current parenting ideologies.  I can consult Counselors and Behavioral Analysts.  I can renew my subscription to Parenting Magazine.  I can seek the advice of those who have gone before.  I can fall to my knees and pray (which I have definitely not done enough).  I can hide, check out, numb the pain any way possible, beg for a maternity test because clearly these cannot be MY children, and argue for the six thousandth time that they are not too old for the Safe Haven Act and most Firefighters would be thrilled to find them on the front steps of the Firehouse.  But all kidding aside, what I cannot ever do is give up on these little creatures who have put their faith and trust in me as their mommy.  Failure is not an option.  You see, I DID ask for this.  I signed up whole-heartedly to carry their little bodies for nine and a half months and their hearts forever.  I made a choice to have them and I will now make a renewed choice to love them, guide them and lead them to the best of my ability.  

So now that the sappy, heart warming stuff is out of the way, I must address the question, “What DO I do when the bombs are falling and the white flag is so far off in the distance I have a better view of the moon during a lunar eclipse?”  Enter my current parenting work in progress, Operation Spray It Don’t Say It 2013.  I am left with no other alternative than to laugh.  I will find - no, create - humor where there is none to be found.  I will steal moments of laughter at the most inappropriate, inopportune times and I will make no apologies for it.  They have delighted in my downfall time and again and I might just, for once, have a giggle at their expense.  I will give it a go first thing tomorrow morning when I will no doubt be awoken to the Princess’s sweet, sweet, voice as she greets me warmly with numerous requests to “Make my breakfast, stupid Momma!”  in a decibel that puts Motorhead’s lead singer to shame.  And I will let the masses know how it goes in hopes that they too, might glean a moment of laughter in an otherwise abysmal moment of misery.

Thrive people, thrive!  Go the distance (Target, water toys aisle).  Do not be swayed by their Strawberry Shortcake undies, their tiny little button noses and rosy red cheeks.  Pay no attention to their pleas for mercy.  They are meant only to weaken your defenses and level the playing field.  The playing field is not level.  Their physical size is merely a front for the mental Goliath that lives within each of them.  Do not be afraid.  Do not be swayed.  Stay the course.  Ready?  Aim.  Fire!  

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