I am so tired of parenting today. I know that sounds really, really bad. But I am so over it. Today was one of those days that my boys were at each other from the time they got up until…well, they still are. It’s 9:32pm (to be precise) and they just won’t quit.
The day started filled with drama. I had just barely shut the door to five minutes of peace in the bathroom when I heard my oldest come tearing up the stairs in complete hysterics. “I’m dying! I’m dying! It hurts!”
So, being the wonderful mom that I am, I ignored him and plopped my butt down anyway. “Hold on, I’m going to the bathroom.”
“But, I’m dying. I’m having an allergic reaction. I got sting by a bee! I am never going to feed the outside cats again. Oh, it hurts. It hurts! Hurry up, Mom, because I am dying here.”
Ladies, I tried really, really hard not to laugh. But, well, I snorted anyway. I finished up and opened up the door. He held his hand out to me, “Don’t laugh at me. I can’t look. I know I am going to die.”
Granted, he is allergic to bees, but not in an anaphylactic kind of way. His hand was pretty swollen, so he was having an allergic reaction, but he definitely wasn’t dying. I gave him some Benadryl, an ice pack, a few hugs and sent him on his way. He went downstairs where his younger brother promptly gave him a rendition of his dying moments. Ice pack went flying and wrestling ensued. I pulled them apart, gave him back his ice pack and went to get breakfast.
After breakfast, we hopped in the car to drive the mile to my parent’s house to take care of their dogs since they’re away. Half way there, my oldest started freaking out and promptly jumped in my lap. While. I. Was. Driving.
“The bee is in my shirt! Oh, my-what!!! He’s trying to kill me.”
My youngest starts screaming, “Get off, Mommy, you big jerk! You’re going to crash us.”
I simultaneously laughed and yelled at him to get off me. He jumps off of me and tries to jump into the back seat but has trouble since his foot is now caught in his seatbelt.
You can’t make this stuff up. I pull off the road as he gets his foot free and jumps onto my youngest in the back seat as this little honey bee floats down to the seat. It tries to fly, but can’t. I assume it’s traumatized from spending the last half hour in my 13 year old’s shirt, right under his armpit. I’d be traumatized too.
I am laughing so hard at this point, I can’t see straight as I get of the car to walk around and get the bee out of the other side. In the thirty seconds it takes, the bee disappears and both boys are flipping out in the backseat. My oldest shows me where he was stung an additional three times on his chest, and of course, furthering his chances of dying sooner than later. I remind him that he is chock-full of Benadryl. We go take care of the dogs and head to church.
“Why are we going to church?” Bubbs wants to know.
“To get your summer math packet you left on the table yesterday when I went in to finish cleaning up after VBS.”
“You mean you’re not waiting until Sunday to get it?”
Then my oldest starts laughing at my youngest and the day just went completely downhill from there.
“He’s laughing at me!”
“He’s dropping a giant boogie filled loogie in my face.”
“He hit me!”
“He broke my light saber.”
“He picked his nose and flicked it at me!”
“He said he would look at my Pokémon cards with me but now he won’t”
“He’s sitting on the dog.”
“He’s swinging the cat!”
“He’s a jerk.”
“He said my feet smell.”
“He’s sitting on my face!”
“He farted on me and hit me when I farted on him back!”
“He played 7.2 milliseconds longer on the PlayStation than I did and it’s not fair!”
Blah. Blah. Blah.
Mixed in with this was random teenage angst, fueled by enhanced ADHD emotional outbursts and combined with a ten year old who is at the moment having trouble knowing exactly how to healthily handle his anger.
I’m just over it. But, according to my mom when I talked to her earlier tonight, I shouldn’t be voicing that out loud. Not so they can possibly hear it, anyway. She told me that I would someday miss it like she did.
“Wait. Mom, you can honestly tell me that you miss the teenage years?”
Silence followed by soft laughter. “No, not the teenage years.”
So, yeah I am really over this parenting thing today. It is hard. Really hard.
I just got up to check on the boys because they’ve been too quiet for the last fifteen minutes while I’ve been writing this. Sigh. They are sitting side by side, squeezed together in our Lazy boy, my youngest with his arm slung around his big brother’s shoulders, watching an old Pokémon cartoon on Netflix and discussing the finer points of catching them all. They’re smiling. Not fighting. Not tattling. Getting along. I love it.
Maybe this parenting thing isn’t too bad after all.