So often as parents we get hung-up on things that don’t really matter. No, I don’t mean we should be like “but did they die?”. That would be fucked up and irresponsible. However, there are some things I’ve been hearing that are just insane. The first is this idea that moms need to be martyrs and be all sunshiny and drooling over their kids all the time. Yes, they will always be that beautiful little baby in your eyes mama, but no, they are not perfect. Of course, I can love my kids while also knowing that they aren’t perfect.
Today my stepdaughter couldn’t come up with a damn thing that would motivate her to clean her room when our therapist asked her the question. The truth is, I knew when he asked the question that if she was honest, she couldn’t think of anything. Not because she is bad, not because she wants to be defiant (well sometimes maybe), but because she honestly doesn’t care about a mess. That is her. It annoys the crap out of us, just like I annoyed the crap out of my mother. Also, she tends to tell some lies in order to attempt to please others or keep herself out of perceived trouble, so I was simply proud of her that she told the truth. I should let her know that tomorrow.
As a result, the therapist asked her who, of her father and I, was better at cleaning. She said her dad was better at cleaning, but I was better at organizing. I think that is because her dad will pick up after dinner, after himself, after the kids, but I tend to be the one to deep clean and make things pretty – or at least warm, welcoming, and cozy. That is important to me. It’s a whole vibe that I wish for our family.
Anyway, after this first question, our therapist then asked who she would like to help her clean her room. She picked me. “Great, just fucking great”, I thought. It’s not that I have a problem cleaning, or helping her, I’ve done that more times than I can count. But to be called out as the one in therapy sat a bit different with me. I suddenly felt like the kid that didn't know the answer, called on in class. Nervous. feeling like eyes were on me. I had no right answers.
“Ten minutes every night”, he told her. He told us to set a timer, shut the door. Ten minutes, her and me. In theory I was kind of thrilled to have this time with her, even if it was cleaning her laundry explosion of a room, with tiny rubber bands strewn about on the floor. Then I thought about my daughter Charlotte, she would be home in two days, and doing anything without her glued to me, especially that first day, was always questionable. “Good”, I told myself, this will be good for Charlotte too.
Meanwhile a pit formed in my stomach. “Ugh”, I thought to myself.
So, tonight was the first night. Timer for 10 minutes. We did it. Honestly, I enjoyed it as I thought I would. We will see how the rest of the week goes. As her dad and I have told her hundreds of times, if she would just go and focus and do it, it wouldn’t take long at all. We got it about 85% done in just this first evening of cleaning together.
Our therapist also told her when we were done to thank me for helping her and for my time and to give me a hug. I’m not one for making kids hug me, even if they live in my house, but a thank you would’ve been nice. Maybe next time. Maybe not. Either way, it’s not about that. It never was.
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