This morning when I walked out of my bedroom Ben met me at the door with a game in his hands and his patented “Wanna pway?”
There is not a game in the world that I wanna pway before the sun is well up into the sky and a hearty dose of caffeine has enhanced my neurological synapses to a semi-normal pace.
Even so, it was well before 7 am that I acquiesed and found myself here:
I let him do his thing without my usual insistence that he play by the actual rules and about 6 moves later he performed his adorable, ecstatic happy dance after “winning” the game, and I was off the hook.
And feeling rotten.
I just want coffee and quiet and personal space.
I want to love this. To be Molly Mother with a soft voice and patience galore. I want to delight in hours of gameplay and teaching and engagement. Instead I alternate between sucking it up and being ornery with my kids. Yep, I’m super mom here.
After years of praying for patience and getting opportunities to develop patience instead of some magical skills, I changed tactics and went on patience prayer strike, in hopes that if I stopped asking for patience that God might stop giving me those teachable moments.
My theory proved grossly wrong.
Here I am, 43 years old, almost 18 years into this parenting gig and still cringing at my own failings. I kind of hoped I’d be on cruise control by this stage of life, that it wouldn’t take quite so much conscious effort to get through a morning, that maybe I would have achieved some kind of guru status that made parenting feel natural and effortless.
Instead I’m just trying to justify hiding in the bathroom, playing Candy Crush for 10 minutes as normal.
At least I’m an awesome dog mom.