Battle of the generations, round one

Why do kids push buttons and then have the nerve to
look surprised when you ground them?

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?”

“Aw!”

“Mom, can I have dessert? ”

“You didn’t eat your dinner.”

“Aw!”

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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