As a mother of three young children, this question pops into my mind on a daily basis. “Why do my children hate me?”  How can my sweet beautiful curly haired five year old turn into Dr. Jeckel in less than 30 seconds? Why does she think I am trying to kill her when I put her socks and shoes on in the morning before school? Why does she think the morning routine is a diabolical plan?

 

You wake up before dawn to wake them with a good morning song and it is almost a guarantee that one of the three will be in a bad mood. My favorite is when one wakes up with a contagious attitude. My daughter threw herself to the ground when I gave her socks and shoes; mind you the shoes were not filled with venomous jungle snakes, just regular pink sparkly sketchers.

 

Not five minutes later my youngest son is throwing muffins at my oldest telling him he is a smelly butthead.  I plead with them daily to at least take turns being assholes, but to no avail. We can’t go five minutes without a fight, a tantrum, or a physical altercation. I sometimes ponder selling tickets to the event; it’s like fight club for toddlers.

 

Why do they hate me? Is it because I cook, clean, wipes their asses? I beg of you to fill me in. Do I not give enough hugs? I am know to be a bit stingy in the hug department.  Is it the dripping sarcasm as I check homework? Please…fill me in. I won’t make it through their high school years if I have to be an on call referee between these three miniature angry trolls. Don’t get me wrong. I will always love them, but for the love of all things holy, tell me why you hate me! Explain why at four years old you refuse to learn to wipe your own ass? I don’t ask you to help me out when I’m done in the bathroom. “Mom, I’m done…..Come wipe my BUTT!”

 

Seriously, leave me the hell alone.  You would think that three small people with the same DNA would be able to find one common bond, but no. The only commonality is that they hate each other and conspire and plan their attacks on me.

I bet they fall asleep each night thinking about the ways they will torture me the next day. “Let’s pee all around the toilet and never make it in the bowl. No, I did that yesterday. I know… I’ll get up and yell and scream like I’m on fire because I don’t feel like getting dressed. No, wait I did that yesterday as well. Come on guys, I know we can find a new way piss her off until she sees red. Wait, I got it. We will all sit quietly until five minutes before dinner and then explode in a massive fight the second Dad walks in and start tearing up the house so he will ask Mom what she has been doing all day! Yes, that will do it.”

So until I figure out why my children want me to run away, I will find joy in hiding in my bathroom for 7 minute breaks pretending to poop so I can have a few seconds of peace.