"I’m just…disappointed."
posted in OmegaDotter, OmegaMom, Parenting |I always thought someone gave you a handout when you became a mom that listed all the strategems and cliches used by mothers the world over for various parenting situations, sort of like a study guide for Mom 101. It would have things like, “Have you brushed your teeth?”, “I’m not your friend, I’m your mother!”, or “I’m not angry; I’m just…disappointed.” It would, of course, make life easy if there were a Mom 101 course, and a Mom 102, a 200-level series, and even graduate work, because people like me, who are addicted to college and university courses, would have a blast.
But somehow or other, I find these cliches leaping to my mouth unaided when the time comes that it is needed.
Today, I needed the “I’m just…disappointed.” line.
Lately, we have allowed OmegaDotter to watch far too much “real” TV (versus her video library, much of which is safely kid-oriented). Hey, when you’re building chicken coops on the evenings and weekends, having a dotter who neeeeds attention all the time when she’s with you can be difficult. So we’ve schluffed off, and it shows.
So we told her that we were going back to the “no TV on weeknights” regime. We got some pouts, some fusses, and OmegaDad allowed her to “trade” TV nights–which ended up not being a “trade” at all, but “extra” TV. Hem.
This afternoon, after we did homework and checked chickens and I fed her a snack, she begged for a “trade”. I nixed it, and then bopped into the office downstairs for a bit of my latest soap opera addiction (the continuing saaaaagaaa of the financial crisis). She popped a video into the machine in the family room, then a while later closed my office door. I continued reading, then looked at the time and realized we had ten minutes until I had to take her off to a sample baton-twirling class.
(Give me no grief about this. We figure it’s another physical activity, plus her BFF K. is in the class. Two birds, one stone, all that…)
So I open the office door and head into the family room. The door to the stairway is closed, and the dotter is not in the family room watching her video and coloring.
I head upstairs.
She’s in the living room, watching Drake and Josh. (Urg. She loooves Drake and Josh. She also loooves iCarly. These are teenager-y shows on Nick.)
She had closed my office door, closed the door at the bottom of the stairs, gone upstairs, and turned on the TV, with the volume down.
She had snuck around so she could watch TV.
I really wasn’t angry. I really was disappointed. I was saddened. I was upset. And, lo and behold, out of my mouth came that parenting cliche: “OmegaDotter. I am not angry. I am disappointed. I told you not to watch TV, and you deliberately snuck up here and turned it on…”
And on and on.
Gah.
Then I pulled out the big guns: No baton-twirling for you! quoth I.
There were tears. There was begging. There was pleading. There was OmegaMom saying she was going to consult with OmegaDad; no drama, no shouting, no anger, just implacability. There was OmegaMom pulling the cable jack out of the back of the TV. There was OmegaDad who, when informed, had the same response. There were more tears, more begging, more cajoling.
Oy!
I don’t want to be a grown-up. It’s a damned pain in the ass sometimes.
