We got up Sunday morning fully intending on eating breakfast and showering and going to church. Then we would have lunch, I would teach my Bradley® class, and we would go for a family bike ride or possibly go to the pool.
But alas, it didn't quite pan out that way. During breakfast we were met with snarky responses, huffs and grunts to parental requests of cleaning off the table, feeding the dogs, drinking their water and all manner of minor non life altering things normal parents require of their children on a daily basis. They have also started being obnoxiously loud and unbelievably annoying during our meal times. They're not trying to be rude, per say, but making CONSTANT silly noises (some table appropriate and others very not so) and never ending song renditions that resemble the original only in tune, not lyrically, volume level or style, all in an attempt to make each other laugh. I think it's become like a competition to see who can be funnier, but in the mean time cups get repeatedly spilled, food resting on forks/spoons gets accidentally launched across the room where it adheres to the cabinetry or window panes, and plates/bowls plummet to their demise on the hardwood floor, all the while the decibel levels rise to ear piercing crescendos until Matt and I fear for the integrity of the spectacles resting on our noses, not to mention the health and safety of our ear drums.
I find myself with a bit of a parenting conundrum as I sit at the table shoveling food down my throat as politely as is feasible for a woman of my age just so I can excuse myself from the table as soon as possible to escape the grating, mind scrambling, chest thumping noise of our vertically challenged table guests. I don't handle yelling very well. I never have. It creates an almost painful physiological response in my body; rapid heart beat, quick shallow breathing, and instantly soaring stress level. We don't want to punish them for being kids obviously. Kids are loud and they're silly and they love to laugh (who doesn't) and be the center of attention. All those things are totally normal, BUT they're probably not appropriate at the table, right? So, after many REPEATED (I know we shouldn't be repeating parents, but sometimes shit happens, so give me a break ok?) attempts from both parentals at quelling the chaos with not much success, I made the decision that we had possibly done to many fun things as a family over the past week or so and there had not been enough responsibility expected out of the kids (the whole head out of the clouds, responsibility on their shoulders thing). So, I told Matt that I didn't want to take them out in public like this and that we would be spending the day cleaning instead. What ensued over the next 4 hours with Bre can only be described as bi polar like mood swings ranging from carefree, sing song, fairy tale world pretending as she politely picked up her my little ponies, to academy award worthy, tear streaked, end of the world magnitude, 15-20 minute long displays of despondency as she flung herself on her bed and bemoaned the obviously physically impossible and never ending, intentionally malicious sentence of being made to clean ones room.
**********SIGH**********
I just kept repeating "She is entitled to her emotions. She is entitled to her emotions. She is entitled to her emotions" while distracting myself with cleaning out a linen closet to prevent going all "spare the rod" on her. I'm pretty sure I also asked Matt at one point if he was ready to go get a vasectomy now, to which he replied "almost". Nerves of steel that man. I also recall breathing a desperate plea that went something along the lines of "Dear God in heaven help us when the hormones kick in. I don't know how we'll make it out alive with any hair remaining on our heads, or anywhere else on our body for that matter." Yep, that'll be Matt and I in the high school graduation picture with matching shattered glasses, no eyebrows, bags under our eyes the size of a buffalo's ball sack, missing teeth from the jaw grinding, fingernails gnawed down to the quick, a twitch in my right eye, and a hitch in his giddy-up, standing on either side of the happy graduate, both smiling like a post-op patient whose just been given control of their own morphine drip. Dear Lord help us!
She was making progress in her cleaning endevor, albeit VERY slowly, and I wondered if I should go help her (perhaps all the outbursts were purely from feeling overwhelmed with the size of the task? [it was quite bad as almost no carpeting could be viewed through the imagination wreckage that seems to follow in her wake]). I even googled "at what age should my child be able to clean their room
on their own" just to make sure I wasn't expecting to much of
her. The consensus from amateurs and experts alike was around 6 years old. "See? I'm not a crazy, unreasonable parent!" I assured myself. I had been verbally directing her cleaning "efforts", but finally decided after 240 minutes that my nerves couldn't take it anymore. There was strong possibility that I might go numb from shock or postal from anger, so I went in armed with 2 garbage bags and a probably much to loud verdict (at this point it was all I could do not to hiss and spit in her general direction like a rabid cat) of
"Now that I'm coming in here to help you clean up YOUR mess, I get to decide what gets thrown and what gets saved. If you can't clean up your own room at 7 years old then you have to much crap in here."
You should see the Saver's pile. It's kind of impressive how decisive I can be when I've reached my limit. Only her very favorite books, dolls and clothes are remaining. The colored pencils, crayons, drawing paper and legos have been quarantined to dining room table use only until hell freezes over, and she's been grounded for 2 days; no playing with friends, no pool, no movies and no story time at the library. You can have whatever emotions you're feeling, that's yours to own and no one can take that away from you, but there are appropriate ways to express your feelings without making everyone around you want to cut their ears off with a rusty kitchen knife, to find a bit of respite.
Now, I've been trying to figure out (insert praying desperately for wisdom on) how we can help her to not let her room get that out of control again, and hopefully stave off another apocalyptic break down. Right? Great teachers (or parents) reflect on what they could have done differently and adjust their plans accordingly (What Great Teachers Do Differently) I'm thinking maybe a before bedtime clean up blitz. I have a hard time being consistent with things like that though so I'm afraid it won't stick. Maybe I just need more of a "you're allowed to move on when....?" approach.
Yes you may play with legos, after breakfast dishes and table are cleaned up. Yes you may go outside and play, after your laundry is put away in the proper place. Yes you may watch a movie, as soon as the dishwasher is unloaded.
At this point there are really no parameters and I have to go find them, issuing reminders of what they should have done first. Not sure how to enforce the dismissal of these expectations though because they would have to ask permission to do anything so I could grant or deny their request appropriately (which is not realistic for them nor desirable to me). In a perfect world the repetition of the action itself would make it stick in their thick little skulls, but in our house that only translates into Mommy repeating herself every day, all day long.
"Get in here and take care of your dishes. Put your shoes IN the closet not in front of it. Come back here and flush this toilet and you didn't even wipe! Turn the light OFF please. Why are there bandaid papers all over the floor, the garbage is RIGHT there. Please be careful with the dishes so they don't break. You KNOW where that pot goes. STOP TATTLING!!!!! The clean clothes don't go on the floor in front of the dresser. If you would put your shoes away where they're supposed to go you could find them when you NEED them. No, you can't have a snack, I'm about to put supper ON the table. Does your towel go right there? How am I going to get all these boogers off the wall? YES you have to drink your water. Put your seat belt ON!"....add nauseum.
I'm a very frazzled Mommy right now. Can you tell? I feel a bit like a bug that had a severe run in with a pretty blue zapper. Something has to give, and it can't be me giving up. I need a new plan cause this one obviously isn't working. Ugh! I'm going to take a cue from Scarlet Ohare on this one for now and go to bed with a heartfelt prayer for guidance and a very very southern "I'll think about that tomorrow."
P.S. Wes cleaned up his room fairly well during all of the hullabaloo with not much drama from his end thank goodness. I did help him finish up though by putting things in plies and then having him put them away in the appropriate place.
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