I woke up to the fact that my so-called "parenting" is mostly yelling when my son, 9, said, "Stop with the yelling, I am trying to find my shoes!" my reaction was to yell, "What are you talking about? I DON'T YELL ALL THE TIME."
He goggled at me like I was a train wreck, "Case in point." "That's just so sad, Mom."
I can imagine him calling me to the stand for failure to communicate. I would be found guilty. I am slipshod. Scattered. Addled. Ungraceful. There is just so much homework to be reviewed, socks to be matched, toast to be buttered and then diagonally cut into triangles, and active listening to be done about the multi-functionality of Legos, that I rarely think not only of my words but of how I say them. I've lost sight of the Big Picture. I just micromanage and blast, "You call that flossing?!?" Then I wonder why no one wants to play checkers with me.
I feel humbled and made meek, like when the dog is bad, she slinks herself to her crate.
Inspiring, kind, helpful, necessary, true. Perhaps I should get these words as a tattoo. Perhaps I should ink them on the insides of my fingers motorcycle-club-style so when I spread them to wave goodbye to the kids in the morning as they go off to school and later, into the rest of their lives, I can read what I had in mind when I started the whole process of having a family.