Oh, dear lord, my children are loud. The deck was stacked against them (or me) in this regard, but their daily general noise level seems excessive even taking into account their flawed genetic heritage. There isn't a retiring one in the bunch. They're always jockeying for position, talking over one another, all believing that the loudest wins.
Sabrina loves to argue. She reminds me of Joe Pesci's character in "My Cousin Vinny." If you say the day is sunny, she'll swear it's cloudy and raining. If you say the sky is blue, she'll interrupt and say the correct term is cerulean. Her arguing is an automatic reflex, and she'll jump in and start an argument even in a conversation she isn't a part of.
Rose is like the center of a hurricane. She loves to whip up the winds of dissention around her and then sit back calmly and watch the show. She also is a subscriber to the idea that revenge is a dish best served cold. I discovered this early on when, after days of being tormented by her older sister, I found Rose hiding her sister's beloved blanket and muttering to herself, "She'll never find it now!" and laughed evilly. Rose was two years old at the time.
Calvin likes to pretend he's the helpless little brother and manipulate his sisters into doing his chores. Or he likes to play the "wronged baby brother" role to the hilt, working the crocodile tears like he was going for an Oscar. In his spare time he works on perfecting his smirk.
And every single one of them loves to make loud, repetitive noises. They will experiment until they find one they like, and then repeat it at the top of their lungs until I go insane. This is their new favorite after-school game. You can guess how much I look forward to the end of the school day. My suspicion is that they have an ongoing bet between them to see who can get sent to their room the fastest after making mom scream in frustration. It's a game that is endlessly fascinating, combing their love of loud sounds with tormenting their mother. What makes a child want to do that? And am I alone in my affliction?
Generally speaking, parenting is a job where there is little to no feedback on your job performance. You will only know how you've done in about 18 years or so. There are times you wonder what in heaven's name you're unleashing on an unsuspecting world. And to be honest, there are many more of those moments in life than I would like. I have been told five "atta-girls" can be wiped out by only one "aw, shit." Since this nugget of wisdom came from the man who also told me that the tooth fairy is a reformed dentist by the name of Milton J. Snookers, that information is somewhat suspect. On the other hand, I have lived long enough to admit that there may be truth to that statement.
And goodness knows those atta-girls, those bright, shining moments of parenting are few and far between, sprinkled amongst a whole lot of those other ones. But once in while they appear, little moments when you stop and say, "Yup, doing something right here." Like the time recently when Sabrina heaved a sigh and rolled her eyes at me for the 7,483rd time. And since my limit for that reaction is apparently 7,482, I went from harassed to livid in 0.08 seconds. But instead of joining me in an attitude throwdown, Sabrina took a deep breath, and then another one, and said, "I'm sorry, Mom. That didn't come out right. I didn't mean to make you mad." Whoa. Way to take the wind out of my righteous sails there, girlfriend. And it humbled me more than a little to know that my 11-year-old could teach me a thing or two about being reasonable.
I'm telling you, parenting is not for the faint-hearted.
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