My favorite thing about you:
Is your temper.
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I can hear you now.
"What?! You love their tempers?! What mother in her right mind would love their kid to have a temper?!"
Why do you have to keep emphasizing the word love? What, I'm having a one way conversation with myself, asking rhetorical questions? Judge me! I'm entertaining and we know it. And you were thinking it.
Okay, so this week was tricky, it was just the three of us for most of it, and if that weren't trying enough, Kale was sick. Again. Yes, again. We kicked it last week, only to go get shots when we probably weren't entirely in the clear and it came back with a vengeance. At 3am. All over my room. Motherhood, Yeah!
If you were to say I had a short fuse, you'd be correct. Having a bedroom that has smelled like puke since Monday, no matter what products you put on the floor shy of a bleach and acid combination that I'm sure would add a skylight to the family room below, will do that to you. Stain no, stench f-yeah! But this week marks the end of the summer for us, officially. Believe it Washington friends, and I'll be sure to let you know when our summer starts. I'm ready for school to go back. Because they drive me nuts! Because we need a break from each other and a concrete routine. We (all three of us) get grouchy without one, and grouchyness leads to tempers.
Bringing me back to the beginning, I love their tempers. Mostly because, it's self expression. They never have been ones to sit back and let things happen around them, they're participants 90% of the time and observers the other 10%. If something makes them angry, they screw up their faces and will tell you in the most passionate of voices that they're angry. Actually it goes more like this "I'm ain-gree" (it's a precisely enunciated two syllable word. Duh.). They're passionate people - and that's a good thing. But it leads to passionate reactions and thus the temper is born, cultivated, and released into the wild that is our house.
I'd love to be one of those mothers that has a calm and even keel reaction to my kids all the time. But it's just not me. I want it to be, I work on it, but dang it. I'm humanly imperfect (shhh... don't tell anyone). I shout, I loose my shit and get ain-gree. Incredible Hulk angry. But we use our words, express our feelings (passionately) and solve things (never name-calling, or accusing). We all clearly know the feelings of the others in the house (and the neighbors might as well) and that's a healthy thing. I deal with a heap of mom guilt over this one. If I could snap my fingers and be a zen mother, I would in a heartbeat. But I come from a loud family. You should listen to a conversation between me and my dad. On cell phones. Actually, you probably have. In Nebraska. We're loud. I was a lifeguard, who never had to strengthen her voice. You get the point.
This house may be loud, passionate, and imperfect, but we communicate. Well and clearly. And someday they'll learn the art of sarcasm, and we'll be darn entertaining too. Like a sideshow.
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