She’s my jerk

She's my jerk

Yesterday I cracked. I looked at my darling little daughter square in the eye and called her a jerk. It didn’t actually have the effect I was hoping for. She just looked at me and rolled her eyes, and emitted a sigh that was a wonder to behold in, and of, itself.

Which is what she does most times when I talk to her, so situation normal then.

I can’t even remember now why I called her a jerk. Probably some sort of back chat. Or maybe it was because her homework wasn’t done. Again. Even though we spent most of the weekend reminding, cajoling, begging her to get it done.

Or maybe it was the moment when I found all her fruit from the week prior stuffed into the bottom of her bag, even though she swore black and blue she’d been eating it.

Or it could have been almost any morning in the past fortnight; where she’s fought with me for what seems like hours, to get out of bed, get dressed and put her shoes on.

Or when she told me that I embarrass her, and that she’s not interested in talking to me. Ever. Which actually only lasted about five minutes, when she wanted my iPhone.

Or when she spent hours whining (aka imitating an ambulance siren) over and over again how she never gets anything; namely a mobile phone, a puppy, new shoes, hundreds of dollars worth things from the American Girl Doll store. I’m pretty sure she’s a deprived child.

I could have been any or all of these. Looking back on the past week or so, I’m actually surprised it only slipped out only once, and it wasn’t any worse than jerk.

And I’m not going to feel guilty for it. She’s being awful. At least it wasn’t like the time a few weeks ago when she accidentally caught me childishly giving her the finger at her turned back, after a particularly fierce argument over nothing.

I’m winning the mother of the year award for that moment, so everyone else can just get in line.

And yet this weekend is Mother’s day. There are celebrations at her school where we’ll do some sort of heinous craft activity (reminder: I don’t do craft), which may or may not (it probably will) involve glitter and way too much glue.

I’ll let her take over the craft activity, and she’ll think it’s because I hate craft (which I do) but actually I’m just content to be watching her interact with the other girls in her class, sneakily soaking up every second with her while she goes about being her.

I know I’ll embarrass her (in fact I might even try to – because isn’t that one of the perks of being a mother?) and I know she’ll roll her eyes at me. She may even laugh and giggle with her friends about how lacking my craft skills are. And I won’t even care.

Because even though she can be the biggest jerk going around, especially at the moment, she’s my jerk.

Now, make me feel better and tell me, what’s the worst thing you’ve called your child?

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Comments

  1. Kim Abbate says:

    Bugger me, I’ve had so many ‘moments’ I can no longer count. But the truth is that they’re minuscule in the grand scheme of parenting moments. We all have those times where we look back and beat ourselves up about things we’ve said or done. You’re a gem of a mum Renee, and Poss is one lucky little girl xx

  2. I just can’t imagine you being embarrassing, you’re waaaay cool in my book.

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