theyWe may not be Irish in our household, but I have three lucky little leprechauns.
What makes them so lucky?
Me: their mom. Let me count the ways:
I’m mom: their alarm clock, hygiene manager, and life calendar
When they miss their alarm or carelessly forget to set it, I wake them. I assemble school lunches when they’re too picky to eat what’s served. I remind them to brush their teeth, comb their hair, and bathe—at least occasionally. I create grocery lists, meal plans (or plan on the go), and ensure they’re fed. I keep in contact with teachers and coaches and WOman the carpool. Uniforms get washed and dried because of me—their underwear and socks, too. I make sure the homework situation gets addressed: spelling words get studied, reading minutes get logged, and school agendas get signed. I notate events, hoping they don’t get forgotten and try to arrive relatively on time. They’re lucky.
I’m mom: the hard-nosed chore enforcer
They’re lucky I’m mean. I make them help around the house. Horrible right? They set the table, empty the dishwasher, and clean up after meals even though the grumbling, the negotiating, the whining, and the one who always sneaks away to use the bathroom. I make them take the trash and recyclables to the garage and occasionally to the curb. Not just the kitchen trash, but all the trash, throughout the entire house. They vacuum carpets and sweep floors. They fold clothes and put them away…in the dresser…after being folded. Or else they redo it. I make them pick up their bedrooms and wrangle the toys that get scattered about. I remind them to feed the pets, change out water dishes, and scoop the poop. In that order too because pets greatly appreciate food and water before the hand that feeds them gets a little fecal matter.
I’m mom: the discipliner
I allow them to play with friends and give them a curfew. When they’re late, they’re lucky I ground them. I grant them time on tablets or electronics, but I set limits. If it’s nice outside, I kick them out. When they argue or negotiate a punishment, I stick to my firm, stubborn self, even if it hurts me way more than it hurts them. Which it always does. When things get a little crazy, I redirect. When they act out, I discipline. When they are rude, I reprimand. When the temper tantrum flies down the hall and slams the door, we all get a nice, long time out.
I’m mom: lucky to be their mom
I’m the one who worries about everything, but still, let them have wings. When they get hurt, I’m the one who cries the hardest, they just don’t see it. I would rather do all the chores and not argue if it would make their life easier. It won’t. I, too, wish to play outside, sit watching movies, or conquer the next virtual level instead of rattling off spelling words and geographical landmarks. And reading, while I personally love it, I’ve learned I struggle with helping littles learn to do it. Still, I sit there and grit through it. I recognized their faults and mine. I give them a little slack when necessary, a hug when needed, and love them unconditionally. Even when they argue. And negotiate. And forget to listen.
The reason my children are so incredibly lucky is not because of the house we live in or the car I drive. It’s not the vacations we take or the camps they attend. What makes my children lucky is the same reason your children are lucky. It’s because they have you, fellow mother. You understand what makes them tick. What drives them, what motivates them, and how to mend what’s broken.
