Drill Sergeant or Mrs. Cleaver?

I'd like to think that I'm going to look back at some of the things my kids do with a sense of humour and have a laugh about it all.  Does anyone have any idea about when exactly that happens?  Do I have to wait until they're grown and out on their own or does it come sooner?  I know the teenage years are out of the question for that to happen considering my own mother's curse of "I hope when you have kids they are just like you" is already coming at me in wonderful karmic justice and since my worst years were the teenage ones, I've concluded that I'm on a downward spiral.  Thank you Ma for reminding me all those years that what goes around comes around.  Those are your words of wisdom that ring in my head every time one of my kids tells me they hate me or I find that drawing on the counter in permanent Sharpie fine point marker.  That is my ultimate **face palm** moment; my mother's wish came true, it sure as hell came around ... times three.

I do have to laugh at most of what happens.  I went to the washroom earlier to find a really pretty purple line tracing around the trim of my bathroom door.  Pretty pastel purple and squiggly, the handiwork of a six-year-old girl.  When I asked the nervous faces of the little motley crew of children in my living room, a unanimous finger pointing indicated that my detective work was correct.  Plus the much too emphatic "It wasn't ME!" was all the proof I needed.  So, Little Miss Picasso was sent to her room for a time-out only for me to putter into the kitchen and find my son's birthday cake had gone through some sort of ritual sacrifice.  Once again, the work of a tiny, female Van Gogh with the help of her brother, Vlad the Pastry Impaler.

It seems lately that my pleas of "don't leave that on the floor", "dirty underwear don't belong in your bed", "stop ripping the legs off of your dolls", "leave that last sip of milk for my tea please", "stop hitting/kicking/slapping/screaming/whining/banging/pounding/throwing/tossing/spitting/grabbing/pinching/gouging ..." are going unnoticed.  No matter how many times I stress to not to make that face/grab that toy/throw stink eye/pitch attitude/put that back/take that out ... it falls on small, selectively deaf ears.  Please insert a mental image of me with two handfuls of my hair and boiling blood pressure.

Time Out has run it's course, it doesn't work anymore.  I almost mourn the many years that Time Out and I have spent together but, in true universal fashion, everything has to come to an end.  Spanking and I never had a good relationship, we kind of just stare at each other  Me on one side saying that any violence isn't worth it and it on the other saying, "C'mon, it'll get the point across.  Just remember 'Mom's Helping Hand' ".  Scolding, talking and the eventual barking like a drill Sergeant are all part of the Mommy Repertoire but they are failing me.  And yes, I know hollering is not a good thing but dammit, they sure as hell notice once I bellow and dearest readers, I haven't been referred to as "Roseanne" for nothing.  Along with my friend Time Out, Confiscation of Coveted Goods is also running away.  Taking the toys, the crayons, the fun away for a set period of time used to be my charm.  It worked so well the first few times that just the threat of La-La-Loopsy living in my bedroom for an undetermined amount of time would stop any radical behaviour (e.g.:  colouring the bathroom and some paper with a brand new tube of bright red lipstick).  I miss the days where threats of Time Out and Confiscation would work or a bellow would stop my animals, er, kids dead in their tracks.  

Now, don't get me wrong here, I don't punish and take without explanations as to why I did what I did.  I ensure that after the inevitable dramatics of some little drama queens and my son's wide-eyed shock and awe have dissipated, we have a sit down to discuss what they did and why they should not, can not and will not have a repeat (oooh, rephrase:  hope we don't have a repeat).  We talk about respect for others, adults, friends and most importantly, themselves.  Considering that their mother is a fledgling Buddhist, it's important that values of consideration, empathy/sympathy, understanding, non-judgement, acceptance, compassion, honesty and awareness are taught.  It may be in small doses but hey, I'm still figuring this shit out for myself too.  

I think there is also the unpreventable confusion of being raised by a single mother who happens to be working full-time from Monday to Friday almost twelve hours a day sometimes.  Some days it feels like I have evening and weekend custody with child care costs being a twisted form of child support.  I'm sure a lot of parents feel that, even in unbroken or blended families with two working parents.  Balance isn't easy, especially when you're lop-sided like me.  I have to try to balance the cookie baking, sweet as pie, fun-loving June Cleaver with the hard ass household dictator.  How the hell do I do that?  Wear fatigues and oven mitts?  Do I make up drill songs to the tune of songs from the Sound of Music?  Am I Mary Poppins who repels in from a Sikorsky C-148 Cyclone helicopter wearing a house dress and an apron instead of floating down on an umbrella?  Okay, you have my point.  Now just think, if that oxymoron role of easy-going disciplinarian is confusing and frustrating to me, how must it feel to them?  I need a resident psychologist, behaviourist, yogi, meditation specialist and a monk to give me all of the answers to the questions I have.  Blech and pout.

So, I'm told consistency is key and consistent I am, or at least doing the best that I can to maintain it.  I have all my fingers and toes crossed, insight meditation, loving-kindness meditation and the proverbial rabbit's foot at the ready in hopes that someday my house will find peace, harmony and Roseanne will be able to leave with Time Out.  I'm sure they'd make a great couple.

For now, I have to go let the girls know that dimes do not belong in their brother's nose.