It's not you, it's me

Probably one of the most honest things we should admit to as parents is sometimes we don’t like our own kids. We always love them sure, but we don’t always like them. Luckily their big eyes and mispronunciation of the letter ‘w’ make annoying traits like whining or their inability to put used toilet paper directly into the bowl tolerable. But that’s the easy stuff. I’m referring to their developing personality with mannerisms and quirks that mimic our own qualities we’ve spent years in therapy trying to dilute. Traits like: stubbornness, know-it-all tendencies, and good old-fashioned moodiness. The irony being it’s not actually them you are mad at, it’s yourself. I’ve created my own army of mini replicas of empowered females and they don’t want me to brush their hair because they “don’t care how they look”.

 I understand the science behind why they lack impulse control with their amygdala constantly firing on all cylinders, but that doesn’t make conversations like this any less infuriating:

“It’s time for you to start eating more vegetables other than carrots.”

“No. They taste disgusting.”

“Sometimes we have to keep trying something and we will start to like it over time. I’m 35 and just discovered I love Brussel sprouts.”

“They smell like farts.”

No arguments there.

I put a piece of broccoli in front of her the size of a thumbtack and she begins to cry like I’m lighting her LOL dolls on fire. It’s a stand-off until she eats it, we won’t leave the table.

“You are so mean.”

“It’s my job to keep you healthy and safe.”

She eats it and stomps off like she’s 16 and I just made her take out her nose ring.

I don’t enjoy this part of parenting, as I’m confident no one does. It’s the part of the tape that we weren’t able to play all the way through; because in the early days we are busy shopping for newborn rompers and envisioning baby yoga classes. The day-to-day battle of wills, blended with a cocktail of questioning and refusals is enough to admit, that if we were dating, this is the point where we’d break-up. Luckily they are magical, lovable little creatures with their endless redeemable qualities—because without these the fire station would surely be swarming with kids holding a Dear John Letter and their plates full of broccoli.