I don’t get kids.
You can give them the best day of their little lives and still somehow end up cast as the villain in their four-act emotional drama.
Like, explain that to me.
For example, Miles is currently obsessed with Pokémon cards (gotta catch them all), so Mike decided to surprise him with a trip to a card convention. Just the two of them, quality father-son bonding, cool new cards, snacks, the whole shebang. An actual dream day for a four-year-old.
They come home, and I’m expecting nothing but happy kid energy. And then, it happens.
Mike opens the front door.
Instead of letting Miles do it.
Instant chaos. Tears. Betrayal. A full-body meltdown over a doorknob. Suddenly, Mike is the worst daddy ever to exist, and the whole magical Pokémon adventure? Forgotten.
Kids, man. They keep the drama high and the gratitude low.
Or how about the time we took Miles to Chuck E. Cheese?
I’m talking full kid fantasy: arcade games, pizza, a giant mouse mascot (well, I’m pretty sure he wasn’t a fan, so check that), and a lollipop for the road. A solid parenting win, right?
Fast forward a few hours later, and his nose starts running. No big deal. The tissue box is right next to him. Like, inches away.
But does he grab one?
Absolutely not. He demands I do it. I politely decline because, you know, basic independence. And that’s when the 35-minute tantrum kicks off. Thirty-five. Minutes. Over a tissue.
This kid is stubborn. And I mean STUBBORN. He sat there, snot flowing, full meltdown mode, flat-out refusing to move. I watched in awe as new boogers formed mid-scream.
The standoff finally ended when Mike physically picked him up and carried him to the tissue box.
Through tears and betrayal, Miles looks at me and says, “Mommy, you are so rude. That was not kind.”
Sure, kid. Get it all out. Glad I could ruin your day after Chuck E. freaking Cheese.
We could be having the best day, with sunshine, laughter, and maybe even a shiny new toy car in hand, and somehow, Miles will still flip the script and cast us as the villains. Oscar-worthy performance every time. The boy has selective amnesia when it comes to joy.
I love him to death. But he needs to chill. Just take a breath, drink some apple juice, and remember we’re on the same team.
Honestly, the last time we had a full day without a meltdown or a tiny argument was when he was fresh out of my womb.
I will always advocate for him and acknowledge his feelings, big or small, but the kid acts like I personally ruined his life if I give him the blue cup instead of the red one.
So yeah, parenting is wild. One minute, you’re the hero; the next, you’re public enemy number one because you dared to breathe wrong or didn’t teleport a tissue fast enough.
But even when I’m the “meanest mom ever,” I know I’m doing something right. Because through all the tantrums, meltdowns, and dramatic monologues about cup colors and booger tragedies, he knows he’s safe enough to feel it all with me.
And honestly? I’ll take that over a perfect day any day, although I wouldn’t mind one where nobody cries over door handles or tissues.
Until then, I’ll keep showing up, snacks in hand, emotional armor on, and maybe, just maybe, hiding in the bathroom for five minutes of peace if I’m lucky.
Motherhood: It’s unhinged. It’s exhausting. It’s a wild ride, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Except maybe a nap. A solo vacation. Or a self-cleaning litter box.
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