I never really liked Rodney Dangerfield’s sense of humor. He wasn’t funny to me. But the more I think about my life as a mom lately, the more I can relate to his “No Respect” tagline. And maybe now I get why he wasn’t funny. He was depressed because he didn’t get any respect. And that’s hardly funny. Well, okay, maybe it is.
Little B had a doctor’s appointment yesterday with his psychologist. We talked for a long time about how well Little B is doing at school. When asked how he was doing at home, Little B excitedly answered, “Great!” “Yes,” I agreed, “you have been doing pretty great…but do you want to tell the doctor what you are having a hard time NOT doing? Like about staying in the back yard and not climbing fences?” “No. I don’t want to talk about that.” “Do you want me to tell the doctor for you?” “No.” The doctor happily changed the subject to talk about how Little B thought that I would feel if Little A climbed a fence and ‘disappeared’ for a while. “She would be worried, and mad, and sad.” “I think you’re right. Because she loves and cares about her, right?” “Yes.” “Well, do you think your mom loves and cares about you?” “Yes.” “Well, do you think that she might worry about what could happen to you if you climbed the fence and she couldn’t find you?” “No. Just like she wouldn’t care if my big brother did it. Because we are boys, and we need to climb stuff.” Little B went on and on about what all boys could do, and how his big brother could do all of those things. Except he didn’t know how to cook. The doctor tried desperately to get Little B back on track, and said, “Well, maybe your mom should teach your big brother how to cook…but let’s…” Little B cut right in and said, “No, I think my dad should teach him. My mom doesn’t really cook. She just burns stuff sometimes.”
Awkward moment of silence.
Thanks for throwing me under the bus there, buddy.
I picked up Tween C yesterday after work, and she excitedly told me about a birthday party she got invited to. We had the standard when/where conversation, and she read over the invitation. “Hey, what does RSVP mean, anyway?” “It means that they want you to call and confirm if you are coming, so that they can plan ahead. “Oh, okay. I’ll call her later and tell her I’m coming.” “No, I’ll call her mom and tell her you can come, give me the invitation.” “Um. No. I’ll call. You’ll forget, and then they won’t know I’m coming.” “I will not! Put it in my purse!” “Mom. Seriously? You will totally forget.” I just looked at her. “Okay, fine. You can call. But I’ll hold on to this, and tomorrow when it’s time for you to call, I’ll bring you the invitation and watch you call her.”
Seriously? Well, okay, yeah, you’re probably right anyway.
Tomorrow is Big E’s 17th birthday. He celebrated the last morning as a 16 year old by missing the bus. While driving him to school this morning, I said, “Awww…it’s your last day to be 16…” and reached over to touch his head. He “snapped” and grabbed my hand just before it reached his head, looked at me like I was crazy, and said, “What are you doing? Don’t touch me.” “I was just going to rub your 16 year old head…but whatever.” “There’s no reason for you to touch me. Like, really.”
Way to spoil a tender mother/son moment, E. And also, paranoid much? Are the voices in your head warning you that I’m out to get you or something?
Luckily, I am aware of my self-worth as a mother because I read stories about people who truly truly suck at parenthood. I am going to start telling these stories to my kids. As a matter of fact, I am going to rent “Mommy Dearest” this weekend and make every last one of them sit down and watch it with me. That’ll earn me some respect, right? RIGHT?!