Why My Children Will Drive Me To Drink, The Crazy House, Or A Combo Of Both

Henry is a cute little eight year old, unfortunately, he’s also the Spawn of the Devil. Literally. Tonight as we’re practicing some handwriting, he informs me tearily that he HATES this! It’s STUPID! I HATE IT! I could almost feel my blood pressure throbbing in that weird vein on the top of my head, yearning to break free…I could almost start understanding why women throughout the 1950’s popped Valium and drank martini chasers until their husbands got home…however, I took the moral high ground. Oh, yes, indeedy I did.

I did what every truly loving mother would do in this situation, and started agreeing with him! “I hate it too!” “Yes, it’s stupid!” He eventually started looking at me sideways, probably thinking “what the heck is wrong with my mother?” And then thankfully my motherhood instinct – you know, the one that tells you that it’s probably not a good idea to think about putting your child in the oven? -kicked in and all was well. Ten minutes after this little episode he looks up at me with those big green eyes and says, “Momma? I need some huggie time.” And I sniffed his baby head smell and kissed his baby head cheeks and once again all was well in the universe.

But I’m keeping the oven on standby.


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