My kids are trying to drive me insane {well more insane} …

I think I am a pretty consistent mother.  I understand the value of a clear message, with a clear outcome, combined with a clear threat.

I speak clearly – use the correct tone, and I have had my kid’s ears tested in the event of deafness.  None has been found.

However I am thinking I need to do a retest on that hearing test or, I need to accept that my kids are deaf, or they are able to filter me out to a point where one could class it as a super power.

This evening the kids are eating dinner.

Connor is nearly finished dinner, and I know  that the moment he is finished, he is going to start to negotiate with me about tv/bath/blowing on his vuvuzela, so I nip it in the bud.  He is about 5 mouthfuls from the end, so I tell him that he finishes, he runs a bath and gets in.

No discussion, no argument, just bath.

Dinner over, he leaves the table heading in the general direction of the bathroom.  Great, I think, tick, task accomplished.

About five minutes later I hear him blowing the vuvuzela (I actually don’t make this up) and chasing his sister around with what appears to be the plastic flag pole from a SA flag we bought for the World Cup.

I have no problem with any of this other than the fact that he is not in the bath.  So I bark “CONNOR GET IN THE BATH — NOW!”

Seems clear.  Unambiguous one might even suggest.

Five minutes later, I hear his sister shrieking because he is blowing the vuvuzela in her ear.  Again none of this I have an issue with – but he is still fully dressed and clearly nowhere near the bath.

“CONNOR GET IN THE DAMN BATH — NOW! NOW!!!!”

I am standing in the kitchen doing something that involves retrieving a piece of lego from my dog’s throat – and Connor saunters in, still holding the vuvuzela.

“Moooooooooommmmmmmmmmm (he does this with a particular whine when I know he is going to ask me something he already knows I am goingto say no to) Can I bath after Georgia.  I don’t like bathing with Georgia, can I bath after Georgia?”

At this point, I am up to my wrist in dog saliva, the lego block is just out of reach, and I have realised I have now pushed the block down into his stomach, so he is either going to shit it out or it is going to be joined by other lego blocks and maybe they can build a city in there.

“CONNOR GET IN THE BATH — NOW —- I TOLD YOU TO GET IN THE BATH FOUR TIMES, I AM SERIOUSLY LOSING MY SENSE OF HUMOUR.  I DO NOT CARE IF YOU DO NOT WANT TO BATH LATER — GET OUT OF YOUR CLOTHES, GET IN THAT DAMN BATH, AND IF I SEE YOU AGAIN STANDING IN FRONT OF ME, NEAR ME, DRESSED AND WITH THAT VUVUZELA I AM GOING TO SHOVE THAT VUVUZELA SOMEWHERE YOU MIGHT NOT LIKE ——– NOW.GET.IN.TO.THE.DAMN.BATH.NOW.GO!!!!”

I miss the days when parents would issue one instruction, and strike the fear of gawd into their kids, and sometimes follow it up with a smack on the side of the head.

When I was a kid there was no discussion and negotiation. You did what you were told, quickly, or you suffered the immediate consequences.

To illustrate:  I was about 6 0r 7, and my mom warned me not to sit on the counter next to the stove top.  She warned me, I did it anyway.  I leaned back and put my hand on a red-hot spiral stove top – and I burnt the spiral shape into my hand.  I knew that if I cried because I had got hurt and I had already been told not to do it, I would have got bliksemmed until my arse bled, so I climbed off the countertop, went to my room, and sobbed into my pillow until I was called for dinner. I never said a word about the burn, and I did not cry when I was out my room, because I knew the fact that I did not listen, that consequence would have been worse that the spiral blister I had on my left palm!

I hate to say it, but I really miss those days.  This  “we care so damn much about our kids that we do not want to beat the crap out of them”generation is just not working for me.

Patience is not my strong suit/suite/word I am not sure how to spell.  Cheese and Rice!

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