Dear God, my mother was a shrew.
Well, maybe not a shrew.
She was 40 when I was born. (I was 40 when my first was born.)
She was tired. (I’m tired.)
She was a yeller. (I, of course, NEVER raise my voice above a soft whisper. #lying)
She used to tell me I was a very intense child. (Okay, she didn’t really use the word “intense.” “Difficult,” “challenging,” “handful,” and occasionally the word “problem” came up.)
My youngest is a very intense child. By intense I mean . . . oh never mind.
(She’s one of those kids about which we say: If she had been born first, she would be an only child.)
My mom was a full-time wife and mom.
I was the light of her life. And, as an only child, the one who took the heat for EVERYTHING in her world.
She was a perfectionist. Her house was uber tidy.
And my mom was impatient. A lot.
As a kid I hated all this. I thought I will NEVER yell at my kids. I’ll be gentle, patient and kind. And I won’t ever let a tidy house come before a little fun.
I will be SUCH a better mother. Cuz it’s so easy. I’ll just do it ALL differently . . .
Because my children ARE the light of my life.
Okay. Well, I do like my house a little clean. (Let’s just say, Lysol Wipes are my BFF.)
The kids do drive me crazy when they leave their Lego out on the floor.
Okay – I yell when I find three week old yogurt in the bottom of the backpack. (Wait . . . was that yogurt?)
Rigid Household Maintenance Standards. Check
Oh Dear God. I’m a shrew.
Turns out... my Mother? She was a flipping saint.