The 3 boys have been arguing lately. Lots.
Yelling, shouting, screaming, hitting, not sharing. The usual type of behaviour for three little ones with only 39 months between eldest and youngest. Normal as it may be, it’s still wearing.
It culminated yesterday. A turf war over hand-mi-down Peppa Pig toys led to the confiscation of 2 and a half toy camper vans, Mrs Rabbit, and 3 small George pigs. Oh, and a bitten nipple. Not mine, I hasten to add.
It’s been getting so bad it’s started to impact my sleep. What am I doing wrong?
I thought to myself,
“There is a lot going on at the moment. Builders in, planning a couple of big events, some volunteer work at school. Perhaps I haven’t been giving them enough attention. Perhaps I’ve been snapping at them. Perhaps I’m setting a bad example.
I’ve always had quite a short fuse. Perhaps, no matter how I act, that temper of mine is already genetically programmed into their innocent looking heads.
And they are boys, they’ll be bigger than me when grown. And stronger. And full of testosterone.
What if the arguing gets worse? What if they start to hate each other? And it’s all my fault? And I can’t do anything about it? Because I’m doing something wrong but I don’t know what?
But maybe they do know what I’m doing wrong, but they just can’t articulate it. But the seed of resentment towards me has already been planted. And when they are grown, pitched against each other, angry, they might start to feel animosity towards me.
And then they’ll find comfort and love in a partner. And confide in that partner. And then that partner will see me for the rubbish mother I am. And all chances to redeem myself with the grandkids will be screwed.
Christmases are going to be hell on earth.
Where even can me and the husband, and three boys and their partners and their three kids each sit together to enjoy Christmas together.
God, Christmas is so stressful.
I HHAAAAAATTTTEEEEEE CHRRRIISSSSTTMMAAASSSS.”
After the above thought processes concluded, about 4 seconds after it started, I took a deep breath.
I remembered to have a little more faith in myself and the kids.
I asked the 6 year old if he knew why him and the two others had been arguing so much.
He laughed. Rolled his eyes.
“Because we’re brothers Mummy.”
“I love my brothers Mummy“.
“Me too, little man.”