You're the worst mom I've ever seen today

I’ve been working with Miss Sassy Pants on speaking politely, respectfully, and clearly when talking to her parents and other adults. We’re working on our attitude, and we’ve made some serious headway. The other piece of the puzzle has been encouraging her to use words to express her frustrations and concerns instead of relying on lashing out with crying or screaming or pouting.

Let me stop and gush: Miss Sassy Pants is ridiculously bright. I could take all the credit — after all, I’m brilliant, right?  She has this God-given intelligence that is amazing. I have to remind myself all the time that she’s actually only 7 and still a child. And so, I’ve been teaching her how to express herself with poise.

Most recently, we’ve had conversations that have begun with her saying, “Um, Mom, I don’t mean this to sound rude but…” Usually, that sentence ends with something like, “but when you tell me to ‘Go, go, go’ in the mornings, it makes me want to just call you bad things.” 

(I was able to get her to tell me what those bad things were. Imagine my relief when it was simply “dumb dumb” and “stupid head.”)

On the night that I earned the “worst mom” label, she was heading up the stairs to get ready for bed after a long day at school and dance. I reminded her that we needed a shower, and she fell right into pout-zone. I told her to stop it with the attitude, threatened a grounding if she didn’t shape up, and hurried her up the stairs. She went to the bathroom to get herself ready, and she returned with this: 

I said, “Thank you,” and she went to take her shower. 

After the shower, as I calmly helped her dry her hair and brush it, I asked her if she knew how that sign made me feel. She said, “It probably made you feel really awful.” (I think she was hoping it made me feel awful.) I told her it didn’t, but then asked for an explanation as to why I deserved to be called the worst mom. 

“You yelled at me when I was going up the stairs.”

I explained that no, I hadn’t actually yelled. I had simply told her to do what I asked. 

“Well, you talked like you were yelling.” 

She had a point. Not that it was something I would have changed, but I saw what she meant. She was telling me that she didn’t like me telling her what to do . . . especially when she was tired.

It was lecture time. I explained that there were many other children whose moms didn’t care enough to fix their hair, give them something to eat, read them a story. I asked her if those moms really weren’t the worst moms. As I was doing this, she was rearranging the sign she’d made. It turned into this:

I thanked her again, and she added this:

Sigh. I try, right? I’m not sorry for any of it, but I did make a deal with her. I told her that if she’d do what I ask WHEN I ask (I say this at least 40 times a day) that I would listen to the way I was talking to her and try to tone it down. 

If any of this makes me the meanest mom, then I suppose I’m proud of my new moniker!