*Warning:  Extreme sarcasm to follow!*

Sometimes I just sit around thinking up ways I can provoke my kid’s groans and hissy fits, so I can make my day especially obnoxious, long and unbearable.  I’ve always felt a sort of kinship with Ms. Hannigan, who torments young children out of boredom and a lack of personal life. Except my theme song goes like this:

“Some moms are dripping with sweetness.
Some moms are dripping with poise.
Lucky me! Lucky me!
Look at what I’m dripping with,
Little boys!”

And we’re not having hot mush today.  Nope, we’re probably having homemade Baked Ziti, garlic bread, and sautéed asparagus. Because spending 1.5 hours destroying the kitchen, in order to feed the ungrateful, pairs best with a good whine such as, “But I wanted to get Chick-fil-a.” 

Seriously, based on my boys allegations, I’ve mastered the art of torture.  Take getting dressed, for example. Around 1:00pm, I’ve been known to insist on publicly acceptable clothing, or at least sweatpants, with or without knee holes.  Works every time I am trying to cause befuzzled horror; “Why do we have to get dressed up!?  Where are we going?!”

Since we homeschool, I have ample opportunities to inflict tortures such as 2nd grade handwriting.  Like pouring a pixie stick in my eye, I adore asking for just one sentence in cursive to the tune of Taylor Swift’s, “Why You Gotta be so Mean?”  The ensuing death scene of defiance on the floor is a hoot!  Maybe requiring one capital letter and an ending punctuation is taking it a bit far. I just can’t help myself.  Even in 5th grade there are a million and one ways to induce a good pout.  Just suggesting topics for a “how-to” essay is cruel and unusual advice.  I always get a good look of contempt for recommending all of the good ideas, moments before they would have come up with them on their own, and therefore rendering them officially unusable.

But, I can’t think of anything I’d rather do between the hours of 3pm and 9pm than drive all over creation to sports and music practices while being treated like a Nazi with a cattle prod.  I literally giggled maniacally when they begged to be signed up for these events, because I could foresee the times I would get to yell and cavort to get them off the tablets, bags packed, properly attired, fed a snack, relieved in the restroom, and into the car with shoes on their feet.  It is so worth every registration fee, monthly payment, and equipment purchase.

Yes, I inflict reading at bedtime on school nights.  Because turning out their lights 30 minutes earlier would reduce the amount of time they have to fight and lollygag in the bathroom and then claim to hate reading, only to complain 30 minutes later, when I turn the light out, because they are “just getting to the good parts.”  Skip this bedtime ritual for a nice hot bath and a book of my own? Never!

I simply love to torture my kids.  Whether it be with a well timed kiss on the cheek in public, singing along to a song they are trying to learn the words to, or stealthily wiping the leftover ketchup off their chin seconds before the other kids see it, it is always music to my ears to hear an exasperated, “MOM!”

This is exactly why I get out of bed every morning.  So I can be present and ready to offer a smorgasbord of breakfast items they don’t want and never did.  A day filled with carefully calculated ways to be griped at and made to feel mean and overbearing.  Because that is what it’s all about.  Me making their lives miserable.  That is, until they are finally old enough to appreciate my mean ways, and then ultimately realize that what was believed to be heartless, was actually the biggest show of love and dedication I could muster.  And despite all the more immediately pleasurable things I could have chosen to do with my time, they’ll realize (hopefully) that I’d do it all again. And they’ll do the same for their own kids. Dukes up, ready to rumble.

 

Do you love to torture your kids?

Well really, how do your kids misconstrue your love and dedication as torture?

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