I've always aspired to be a Mean Mother. Not in the grouchy, grumpy, mean-just-to-be-mean kind of "Mean Mother" way, but the "There are consequences to every action - you choose the action, I choose the consequence - no discussion" kind of way.
I anticipated it would take me awhile to achieve the title of Mean Mother. After all, little girls adore their mothers and are convinced that the women that brought them into this world really can take them out of it by wiggling their nose or counting to three or vowing to sell them to the gypsies if they continue to try to ride on their sister like a horse.
Boy was I wrong.
The other day I put Woodstock in timeout for what seemed like the 475th time that day. It was a particularly rough day, and it wasn't even lunchtime. It's rare that there are days like that, but even fair-haired, blue-eyed impish little elven children have days where the world of "bad choices" is far more tempting than the staid, boring array of good choices available to them.
As I put her in timeout, Woodstock (who was crying) said, "But I said sorry!" I launched into another rendition about choices and consequences and how being sorry is important, but so is "doing the time" for making a bad choice.
With tearstained cheeks, Woodstock looked at me and said, "You're not the best mother in the whole world anymore. You're MEAN."
She'd only been three for just over a week.
I need a new goal.
1 comment:
Oh, sad! But, um, congrats on attaining the coveted status already! ;) I, too, have been labeled a "mean mom", and I will admit to feeling a small sense of accomplishment, as well. All the best moms I know are "mean", so you're in good company!
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