My 9 year old was in full-on crazy mode this weekend. I don't even know what to do with her. On Saturday afternoon, I decided to paint my bedroom. It's needed to be painted for like, 5 years. It was the hottest mess. There was something on the ceiling, I'm not sure what is was but it looked a little bit like vomit. The paint was faded and smudged. The desk needed to be repainted. One of the asshole kids decided to play tic-tac-toe on the top of my white desk with sharpie.
My husband was annoyed that I wanted to paint. I was like, "I can't live like this anymore. It's unacceptable. I'm not going to sleep in this room another night like this." I'm the lady who slept on a mattress on the floor for 3 years after we moved into this house. It takes me a little while to get my shit together.
I took down all the picture frames. They all had an inch of dust on the top of them. Gross. I disassembled the furniture, I pulled out the bed and headboard. Someone had spilled chocolate milk behind the bed. It was all on the wall. It looked like it had been there for years. I was like:
I had to scrub the walls before I could even paint them. My oldest was at a friend's house and my youngest wanted to "help." Which was fine but when kids want to help it means they are going to spill paint on the baseboards and complain after 2 minutes. I let her help with the painting. As expected, she became bored after a short while. She wanted to hang out while I painted. I was on a ladder and every 2 minutes she was like, "Mom, mom, mama, mommy. Look at me. Look at this. Mom, look...." I turned and she would do a cartwheel, or stand on one foot, or something else that I didn't care about seeing but had to pretend that I thought was amazing.
Normally, my kids never want to hang out but the minute that I'm doing something they need so much attention. I was not feeling it. She started climbing up the other side if the ladder. I was painting the vomit stain on my ceiling and she was like, "Mom, I need a kiss." So I stopped and gave her a kiss. After a few hours, I couldn't take it anymore. I turned to her and said, "Listen, I love you and I like to spend time with you but I need some time alone."
"But, mom. I need to be with you." I couldn't take it. "No. You have to go." She flipped out on me. "You are the worst mother!" She cried like I broke her dreams. Great. One of her friend's mom texted me asking for her to sleep over. It was like God was smiling down on me. My husband drove her over and I finished painting.
The next day, both kids came home in the afternoon. My husband whispered in my ear, "Our taste of freedom has come to an end." We were busy cleaning up and I had to go to the grocery store. When I got back, I instructed the children to get ready because we were going to go to a Super Bowl party. That's right - I got invited to a Super Bowl party. I didn't even have to pander to anyone to get an invite. I'm moving up in the world.
My 9 year old was like, "We need to go get Panther's tee shirts." Ummmm.....no. First of all, we are not even Panther's fans. We only are supporting them because they are geographically the closet team to us. Second of all, I'm not spending money on a tee shirt for this Super Bowl.
The look on her face immediately changed from calm to this:
The rage was intense. "WE CAN'T GO TO A SUPERBOWL PARTY WITHOUT PANTHERS SHIRTS!!!!"
"Yes we can. I'm not buying any shirts. Go put on something in the Panther's colors."
She put her hands on her hips. "REALLY MOM? REALLY? YOU ARE SO GHETTO. THIS IS CRAP."
I thought, Did my 4th grader just call me ghetto? She cried for 40 minutes before she realized that I wasn't going to give in. She came downstairs in black and blue. "Awww. You look nice, baby."
She crossed her arms and scowled at me, "Whatever. Are you happy now? Don't talk to me."
That's fine. You don't have to tell me more than once. We went to the party and she was great. In a good mood. We laughed and ate food. It was a nice time. We left after the half time show because it was getting late. She put on her pajamas and BEGGED us to watch the rest of the game. We gave in- the Super Bowl does only come once a year and it's an American tradition.
She was really into it. She was screaming at the TV, "Get the ball! Run! Run! Oh NO!" She threw her hands in the air with frustration. I was a little skeptical because I didn't know that she understood football but apparently she does.
The Panthers lost. She was so upset. Literally, devastated. It was so hard not to laugh. It was really over the top. I laid in bed with her and she ugly cried. Wailed. Snot dripping down her nose and everything. Poor baby. "It's okay," I said as she buried her sweaty little head into my chest, "It's only a game." She spoke softly between sobs. "But....I...wanted...them....to....win. They....deserve....better." More sobbing.
I couldn't make it better. She cried herself to sleep, poor thing. Every day is a roller coaster. I never know what I'm going to get from these kiddos.
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