Parenting's a Pain

It's been seven years and eight months since I became a mother.  That's a mighty long time... and I still don't think I get it.  In fact, I don't even know what it really is.

In the summertime, when I have my kids all day (and don't have to do daycare or work or school for anyone), it's always interesting.  Some days it's easy.  Most days, it's not.

We never really plan our outings, but have several regular hang outs.  The neighborhood pool is great in the morning just after it opens (fewer older kids).  The playgrounds in this area (driving distance of less than 15 minutes) are stellar. If we pack juice boxes and water, it's a great outing for several hours.  The library has programs all through the week.  I've stumbled into only one and never remember when they are, but they're free and they're awesome. The creek that passes through the edge of our housing development is a private oasis for rock throwing. 

And visiting the ducks and geese at the marina is great for an hour's excursion and for ridding the house of the just-stale cereal and bread crusts. 

It's when we elect to just stay home that is a bit trying.  The kid wakes herself up.  I fix her breakfast.  She rejects it because it's not what she was in the mood for - or for some other such excuse along those lines.  She then disappears to play, read, or watch television.  Then I hear the familiar beep of the microwave, it's special hollow door slam, the unsealing of the fridge, the clanking of silverware, and the closing of drawers and cabinets.  She's cooking!  Cookies in the microwave? She tried it - they burnt.  Omelettes on a plastic plate or scrambled eggs in a bowl? Sounds like a great idea.  And mixing up her own juices?  I have the red stained tiles and counters to show those efforts.  Taco fillings on white bread? What a concept.  I've stumbled into more kitchen messes than I care to admit - and no matter how many times I ban the child from that room, she continues to play chef.

The three levels of our townhouse show clear signs of children gone wild.  Every floor has toys.  Little messes seem to collect faster than I can eliminate them.  Why is it that the best playtimes require every toy be out of the toy box and in plain sight?  And how come the clean up song only works at daycare?

I suppose I get a bit too frustrated too often.  And I raise my voice.  Maybe I even yell. Yeah, that's it. 

Just yesterday, when I reminded Chi for the third time that she needed to let the dogs out (her one official chore besides keeping her room tidy), Chi said under her breathe to her brother,

"That's why we call her the MONSTER."

For the rest of the day, Ya squealed or screamed if I walked anywhere near their play, and took off to hide.  So, now they call me monster?  I liked Mommy Rachelle much better.