Don’t all mothers feel like this from time to time? We have such high hopes for our babies, and then we find out as they mature, they have real “druthers” of their own–real personalities. What can we do to keep from being like the pressure cooker gathering steam as the fire gets hotter?
I’m going to regret this post. I’ve avoided rants on this blog for a number of reasons, among them my great dislike for the word rant. It rubs me the wrong way, especially in its overuse. If the word is a big part of your blog, please don’t take offense. You shouldn’t care what I think. I’m only me. Well, I never imagined my first tirade would be about my sweet, amazing seven-year-old. But if it must, it’s really about myself. Days like this, I’m mystified – in fact, undone – by this beast called parenting. Because I come up short.
I’d just like to stay human as I find myself relegated to a parrot in my home. I tell my boy eight times to do his math. Six times to come here. Seven, to clean up his stuff. By the third repeat, he should hear the aggravation rising…
View original post 866 more words