Motherhood

I wish I could wave a magic wand and make myself a great mother. A Donna Reed/Dharma type that always knows just how much or how little to do of everything.

Unfortunately, my semi-authentic Harry Potter wand doesn’t seem to be working.

I am home, and Ben is home, and Maya is home. This is familiar territory. After all, I was home with Ben for three years. Three years. I should be used to the stress of constant inane conversation about SpongeBob, or understand that the sparkly pencil is not actually a sparkly pencil, but a super robot lava wand that shoots and burns Batgirl and Bat-baby. I am, of course, Batgirl. Or Lava-girl. What I am not, unfortunately, is Wonder Woman.

Marti and I are not big talkers. One thing I noticed about going to work is that by the end of the day, I am tired of talking to people. Talking makes me tired. It takes my energy. Small-talk makes me doubly tired. Talking about SpongeBob, Teletubbies or Super Heroes pushes me right over the edge.

So what do I do with my adorable 4-year-old boy who loves to talk, non-stop, from the moment he wakes up in the morning until he collapses into bed at night? I want to answer his questions (which are endless). I don’t want to be that adult that says, “Because I told you so,” or “It just is, all right?” but I am quickly becoming that person. I don’t know any other way for him to learn that it is not okay to hound people all day long, or that sometimes he has to obey adults simply because they ask him to. These skills are not a joke, and not having them can be crippling in adulthood. I just hate being the adult teaching them. I want to be the hip, cool parent that is totally understanding and doesn’t yell or get frustrated but instead has this amazing rapport with her kids. I am not that person, however. I am a real, live grown-up who worries about my kids being able to hold down a job or, at the very least, attend a court proceeding without talking back to the judge.

And that, my friend, royally sucks.