This parenting minions gig is unnerving. At least, it is for me. I’ve no clue if I’m actually doing it ‘right’, and by the time the kids are grown, and you see the full results of what your parenting has accomplished, it’s too late to change anything. I vary wildly, from envisioning them being amazingly successful adults, to just hoping they all don’t live in my basement forever.
I still find myself saying the weirdest things. Just yesterday, for example, I found myself asking Cubby, “Why are you cuddling the dog’s butt? She’s a big dog. Loads of other space for cuddling on her. She farts, and you’re going to cry!”
I *know* normal mothers don’t say things like that…but Bazinga has some terrifying gas.
Or, “Do not stab your brother in the head with a fork!” I swear, Terror Toddler is going to be restricted to spoons until he’s older. Like thirty.
“The toilet is not a car wash!” The toilet is also not a book cleaner, a toothbrush scrubber, a rock tumbler, or a baptismal font. Seriously, *what* is with the fascination with the facilities? Six kids, and I *still* haven’t figured that one out.
“Quit eating kibble!” You know, I might just give in on this one. I read the ingredients of Bazinga’s kibble. I’m not sure there’s a huge difference between that and some of the cereal on the market these days. Oh, sure, breakfast cereal doesn’t have chicken, beef, or lamb, but that’s just more protein, right? And protein is good.
I have to admit, though, kibble breath is disgusting. Especially when it’s coming from the baby. Yes, it’s not a dietary issue, it’s a bad breath issue. And kibble stuck in the teeth. You know what’s even worse than that? Gravy drool. Kibble gravy drool. Because, inevitably, that’s when he wants to give you a great big kiss. *shudder*
If nothing else, parenting has caused me to adjust my standards. Lower. Forever lower.
However, some days, I think I might do OK at this whole parenting gig.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not frequently or anything, so I’m not going to get all prideful, strut around with a swollen head, and assault other parents at the grocery store with unsolicited parenting advice.
If nothing else, my Minions keep me humble.
But now and then…I get a flash of hope that they might not all end up needing some serious therapy. Or on a talk show.
Like, the kids getting along. Hey, it happens! It doesn’t last long, but it *does* happen. They have the typical sibling thing happening, where they can pick on, torment, and make each other nuts, but woe betide any outsider who does. Anyone that breaks one of my Minions hearts is going to have the other four looking for revenge. Almost makes me pity any future dating prospects. Almost.
And, then there’s Tazzie’s new skill. He’s figured out how to make coffee. As in, make a fresh pot, *and* pour a cup, fix it perfectly, and bring it to me, just because. And, he’s asking to learn how to cook.