Author: JoAnn Crohn

My nine-year-old daughter sighed and stared out the car window at the glow of the street lamps. I could hear the annoyance in her voice.

“I don’t want to talk about it”

Ugh… roadblock. And it had been such a tame conversation.

She told me about how the class had to write a lot that night. Writing during dance class? Totally weird to me. So, I asked her,

“What did you have to write during dance class?”

Bam Total shut down. She clammed up. I had asked one too many questions.

“Ok. That’s fine.” I clenched my jaw. I asked one simple question. Why did she have to treat me like this?

Then, she turned me and said, “I’m sorry.” Not a heartfelt, “I’m sorry.” Rather, the apology dripped with guilt and fear that she had deeply offended me and didn’t want me to be mad at her.

I stared at the complicated chore chart that my dad placed on our refrigerator.

42 cents for washing dishes. 20 cents for picking up my room.

When he first pitched this idea to my 10-year-old self, I wanted to do all the chores immediately.

This was my chance to earn $5 a week. Yes, I could do this!

So, I did the dishes. It took me 20 minutes and I didn’t even get enough money to buy a can of soda. Wouldn’t it be simpler to pull that red can of Coke out of our fridge?

That week, I completed a few boxes of chores from that monster list, collected my $1.15 and then ignored the list the next week.

Soon, the chore chart disappeared.

It was 6:30 AM on the first day back to school last year. I put my hand on my daughter’s fluffy floral comforter and shook her.

Gently, of course.

OK… OK… it was harder this time.  Because this was the fifth time I walked into her room that morning to pull her from bed.  This morning was close to becoming a chaotic mess.

My son stomps into my office upstairs. I’m staring at the computer trying to figure out what to write next.

His face is full pout.

“MOM! I told them I need a break!”

Uh oh. Usually when this happens, he’s prepping me for something – trying to convince me that he’s on the right side.

It’s a fight. I can feel it.

It’s the fifth temper tantrum of the morning.

Your son is mad at you because you poured milk on his cereal when he only wanted it on the side.

Your daughter huffs past you in a little ball of rage because her brother is taking all the attention… AGAIN.

And you?

You are fed up.

“Mom, can I invite a friend over today?”

I hesitate. I want her to be able to invite friends over, but today is simply jam packed.

Nope. Not today.

Five minutes later. “Mom, can I have a playdate?”

What the…? Didn’t I just answer this same question five minutes earlier?

Vitriol.

Anger.

All seemingly directed at me.

But its not about me. And its not about you either when your child turns on you with the rage of emotions and backtalk.

Every week, your daughter tells you of a new conflict with a particular friend at school. You are losing your mind and feel helpless. Here’s how to help your daughter deal with friend drama.

Ever walk in your house and become immediately overwhelmed with the stuff lying around?

Its bad enough when you have a kitchen junk counter stacked with 3 layers deep with kid’s artwork, random books and those gadgets for your door that you don’t want to throw away but you don’t really know how to install.

But then is all the stuff your kids leave laying in the living room or crammed onto the top of the family room game shelf.

Children can say some pretty hurtful things.

As my kids perused the LEGO aisle in Target one day, I spied on a mom and her little girl.

They were picking out a birthday present and the mom tried to convince her five-year-old daughter to choose a small LEGO friends set.

The daughter agreed, but then… went one step further: she asked for the same set for herself.

“No honey, we’re buying birthday gifts today.”

“BUT WHY??? THAT’S NOT FAIR”

Mom still tried to explain, “Sweetie, its not your birthday. We’re just getting something for your friend.”

“NO. I HATE YOU! YOU’RE THE WORST MOMMY! I DON’T WANT YOU AS MY MOMMY ANYMORE”

Sassiness.

What can I say, sometimes we bring it on ourselves…

I walked into the kitchen this morning where my son was sitting perfectly happy, until he saw me…

Middle school was complete hell.

When my daughter entered sixth grade this year, I was terrified.

I didn’t want her to think it was her fault that other people were mean to her. I wanted her to know how to confront problems and the typical, stupid ways that people would react.

Ways that had nothing to do with her.
Girl drama is one of those things.

He cried when he opened his present. Actual real tears running down his cheeks.

Nope, not tears of happiness.

To him, Santa betrayed him.

I yelled at my kids this morning.

I simply lost it. Usually, I’m not a yeller. I’m the one who keeps all my frustrations hidden until they insidiously eat away at me until I’m curled up in a little ball, crying on the couch.

It’s not healthy.

But yelling, oh man. My kids had finally found my button.

In the corner of my family room sits my daughter’s backpack, dance bag, coat and her backpack from last year that she refuses to throw away.

Oh my goodness. I’ve asked her ten times to clean up this pile.

I feel as if a huge fist is squeezing my stomach. My shoulders knot up.

Deep breath.

You walk in the door from school. Your nine-year-old comes in after you.

Everything seems fine. She’s happy. All is well and good.

Then, you remind her that the dishwasher needs unloading.

Boom. It’s like something inside her detonates.

“Noooo… I don’t have time to do that. That’s so unfair. I can’t believe you’re making me do this!:

She glares at you, stomps over to the kitchen sink and starts crying.

WHA-ATT just happened? She was happy. I didn’t blame her. I just had a simple request.

Walking past the Disney store, I see a kid in mid-breakdown.

Her face is red, her eyes are wet.

The woman -I can only assume is her mom – stands above her and repeats, “No, you can’t get a toy from the Disney store.”

“WHY?!?,” the little girl screams, “WHY! It’s not fair! You said we could. It’s not fair!!”

Is this little girl spoiled?

“Five more minutes!” you call into the living room.

Your daughter and son are both engrossed in their tablets. They haven’t left the couch all afternoon.

You feel that you have no control over it either –  take away their devices and they become complaining, moping monsters.