Both of my children have attitude problems, but my oldest especially. The younger one came in to get a drink just about the time that I was going to go fetch them to come inside for the night, so I told him to go get his brother. This is partially on me because I should have known. I really really should have known he wasn’t going to listen to a single word his little brother had to say. The little one comes back in screaming and hollering about how his brother is “disrespecting” me (his word) and not listening. So naturally, I had to roll my eyes, get my shoes, and step out to call him in myself. Like I should have just done in the first place. I lean out the door, see him across the street immediately, call his name and wait. A few seconds pass and I hear him yell, “WHAT?!”
Boy, let me tell you something. That child is so lucky it’s 2018 and not fucking 1970. It took every ounce of self control I had not to run out there in my houseshoes, slap him in the mouth in front of his friends, grab him by the ear, and drag his ass back into my house. This kid doesn’t even know.
I walked out onto that porch and gave him the look.
Yall know the look.
That mom look that moms do when they’re super pissed.
If you’re a mom, you make it all the time. If you’re not a mom, you’ve seen your own mom make it all the time growing up. Can you guess where moms learn that wretched look?
From their moms!
It’s one of those universal things that happens all over the planet, has happened throughout the history of mankind. The cold hard look of calm rage that sends shivers down kids spines because they know they’re about to get their asses handed to them. The icy glare of fury that signals to the world that this woman is about to snap.
As I’m staring at him across the street, lips pursed and eyes narrowed to a pinpoint on his little bobble head, that boy has the nerve to REPEAT HIMSELF.
In a totally uncontrolled exquisite demon impression, my voice lowered and raspy and fueled by the fire and anger of the millions of moms that have tread this path before me, I yelled, “GET IN THE HOUSE NAOWWWWWW!!!!”
I saw the color drain from his face. I saw the color drain from his friend Pedro’s face (name changed for privacy). The other kids scurried away like little roaches who’ve just had their party interrupted by the turning on of a light, and mine dragged himself, probably against every instinct in his body, toward the fire.
If this had been a story from 1970 we all know how it would have ended. Ass. Platter. Yeah. But it’s not 1970, it’s 2018 and we have different standards now and beating your children is unfortunately looked down upon now. No, I did not slap him. I really wanted to, but I didn’t. Because I’m a modern parent. I stared him down the entire time he walked through the house, just waiting for me to explode and scream at him.
I sighed.
And I simply said, “Go get ready for a shower.”
Thank the powers that be that I was not a parent forty years ago. Because I probably would have landed myself in jail.
Both of my children have attitude problems. They get it, at least in part, from their mother.
The Terrible Housewife 