It's Monday and already I can tell that the rest of the week is going to be trying. Thanks to my nine-year old son, Mr. Attitude, most of the fun things I had planned to do with him this week have been cancelled.
When do parents ever have the time to make the memories that will one day be called the good old days, if they're constantly in need of canceling those plans and acting, well, like a parent and NOT a favorite aunt or uncle or best friend?
Apparently, I am being ˜punished' by my son today because he's grounded from the television and I keep catching him watching it. The boy has plenty of things to entertain himself with in his room or outside, but he doesn't see it that way. Instead, I am the evil overlord that has imposed Great Boredom on him.
Well, sing me another tune.
I'd love to know where he's gotten this inflated sense of self-entitlement especially since I have been doing my best to ensure that my kids suffer since the day they were born. That's my job. And truthfully, the kids make my job quite easy in that respect.
"Mom, can I go to the park?"
"Is your room clean?"
"Mom, can I have dessert? "
"You didn't eat your dinner."
How difficult is it to meet these expectations? Well apparently it's very difficult.
Mr. Attitude doesn't eat wheat bread, nor does he eat the crusts. Mr. Attitude doesn't change his own bed, wash with soap, fold his own clothes, tie his own shoes, take out the trash or pick up his own room.
This constitutes his proclamation of emancipation (a slammed bedroom door) because these expectations are too high.
Well, he's grounded. Period. Indefinitely. And if he keeps it up, he'll have to postpone his wedding in twenty years because he'll still be grounded.
But it's not like that's the end of it. Oh, no. There's no peace and quiet for this mom. Mr. Attitude has a younger brother who has been seriously studying his behavior.
I ask the three-year old to put on his shoes so he can go outside and play. What do I get? I get a child that throws himself on the floor, wailing at this injustice. He then screams at me, "I can't take it anymore!"
He can't take it anymore? He has so very little clue. If he thinks he's got it rough now, wait until he's a teen. I consider this the Battle of The Generations, round one. And I'm in it for the long run.
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