It’s confessional time for me. I’m not the easiest person to get along with, and the kids know it. They know that look. My hair is a hot mess sticking ten ways to Sunday. My eyes are going crossed, and I would give the ugliness of Medusa a run for her money.
I have the patience of an almost saint when it comes to my kids, but that’s all I have the patience for. Love them to death, but sometimes you need to send them into the yard saying, “Don’t kill each other!” Yeah, imagine my neighbors on that one looking at me. It’s better than me saying, “Y’all play pretty.”
**Before the flamers come out of the woodwork, my kids are in a backyard that is fully fenced in, and I watch from the back windows and back door at all times.
So what do I do when a natural disaster keeps my kids inside, bundled energy and all? How do I keep from yelling? How do I keep my head from spinning around in a complete circle?
It doesn’t matter. Go to another room, go to the bathroom and say you gotta take a crap. Just get away before you say or do something you’ll regret later. I know it’s hard, and you might see little fingers beneath the bottom of the door and the hounds of hell going “Mommy.”
I love my kids dearly, and I’ll be the first to admit of having a potty mouth around them. Oops!
Drink water, or wine (I don’t drink), or whatever you can get your hands around.
I know it always helps me to get my hands around a cold glass of sweet tea when I’m about to do something. My hands shake, but the act of drinking keeps my hands and my mouth busy.
Once I’ve chugged down a few glasses and my body is focusing on my forever feeling bladder, I’ve given myself an excuse to do No. 1 above.
Pray .. hard.
Put your hands together and say a prayer. I look up at the ceiling, cross my fingers in front of me and let it all out. I don’t scream, I don’t yell, most of the time, but it feels good to get it off my chest even if I can’t see the person.
Send them to Sippi’s (my mother) or whatever you call grandma.
When it’s just gotten to the point I am about to explode like Mt. Vesuvius over Pompeii, I send my kids to grandma for a few hours. I’ll drive around with my music blaring, windows down, maybe run a few errands. It’s hot around here, and I end up looking like a rabid poodle, but I’m able to calm down.
Funny story behind Sippi’s nickname. When my nephew was a little kid, his daddy, my older brother, was stationed out of state with the U.S. Navy. My brother would always say they were going to see Grandma in Mississippi. My nephew could never fully say it, and it would always come “garble, garble, Sippi.” So … Sippi stuck.
I promise, I love my kids dearly and would lay down my life for them if asked, but they do try my nerves. If a mama says her kids don’t, she’s lying, delusional or both. Hope my tips help or at least give you the giggles enough to relax. Live, laugh, don’t forget the loves.