Author: JoAnn Crohn

“Mom, I can’t do this. I’m scared”

My daughter glares at me from the backseat, ready to cry. I can see it.

Recently, she’s developed a fear of bumpy and windy roads. Every road trip we take, her first question is always, “Will it be bumpy?”

I have no idea how this started or how the fear originated, but man, she can work herself up to the point where she starts feeling stomach aches and refuses to eat.

I’m not picking up my toys for forty-five cents.

Even though it was close to 25 years ago, I remember that chore chart affixed with Disney magnets to our white fridge.

My dad had broken apart every chore in our home, assigned it a monetary value and created this perfectly organized chart.

If I did every chore on it, I would earn $2 a week.

That amount seems small now, but at the time, my 10-year-old self was pretty stoked.

So I scanned the list and decided to start with dishes. I quickly scrubbed the plates, bowls and silverware and placed them in the drying rack. It took me 20 minutes.

Yes! I went back to the list and check it off. Fifty-cents.

Already…I was done with this.

Time for a break.

Fast-forward a week later and that was the only box I completed on the ENTIRE chart.

As soon as we stepped out of the theatre lobby, my nine-year-old daughter burst into tears.

“Oh my goodness, what’s wrong?” I pulled her close.

She nudged me away with a little whimper and used the back of her hand to sop up her face.

Immediately, my brain went into panic mode.

Was someone mean to her at camp?

Did she not have fun?

She climbed into the backseat and the whole story came tumbling out:

I saw the potato chip fly across the table.

We’re at the mall food court and next to us sits a mom and her two boys. At that moment, I feel for her.

“Jonathan,” she placated, “Why did you throw this at me?”

I clench.

“WELL! Aaron threw at me! It’s not MINE!”

Aaron sat next to her examining the contents of his plate.

“Oh fine… well, it’s not nice.”

I stare at my plate of tacos. What just happened here?

Not my best parenting moment.

My four-year-old son and I were running late. It’s always where my blow-ups happen.

We had left Target and were driving to pick up my daughter from her day camp when I noticed it… that orange light on the dashboard.

I only had 7 miles left in the tank.

OK, I can do this. I can hit the Circle K on the way to camp. As I cross the intersection, I notice the station is packed – I’ve never seen so many cars!  Every pump occupied.

Ooohh… except one. I pull a fancy backup maneuver and sidle up to the pump.

“Mommy, I’m hot,” my four-year-old son tells me from the backseat.

I thought it would be a nice breakfast out.

My husband was golfing with his parents and brothers, so it was just me and my kids.

We slid into a teal green booth at the Oink Cafe.

“Mommy, I want to sit by you,” my nine-year-old daughter slid into the booth next to me leaving her four-year-old brother to sit by himself on the other side.

Ooooh…I knew that wasn’t happening.

I saw his face crumple. He opened his mouth and before he could say a word, I interjected with…

“No, why don’t you both sit together?”

That’s when the standoff began.

“MOooooom, I can’t find my library books.”

My daughter stopped, stood in the middle of the living room and stared at me with these sad eyes.

Her head was down.

Her shoulders drooped.

I don’t buy it for a second.

Deep breath.

“Mommy, I’m sick. I don’t want to go school”

My preschool son stood in front of me, still wearing his Paw Patrol pajamas. My heart picked up pace.

Anytime my kids are sick, a solid steel ball forms in my stomach.

Is he ok?
Should he go to school?
Or does he need to stay home and rest?
And also, the point I’m less likely to admit:

Am I bad mom sending my child to school when he says he is sick?

This conversation might sound familiar:

“But you didn’t tell me to…”

“It is not my responsibility to remember your homework/ lunchbox/ dance clothes…”

Maybe you’ve said it or possibly heard other parents say it and have vowed, “No, not me. Never.”

And then you’re faced with that moment where your child forgets her lunch at home for the third time that month.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

“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.