BRATTY MUCH?

21 NOV 2017

Sofia is a Pandora’s box of sh-t these past 3 weeks. If this is one of those crises they who we shall not speak of warn you about, then it is our first ever crisis and because for 7 years I had no idea what those who we shall not speak of meant, I have now been knocked right out, unable to keep up under heavy blows. One, two, three… Do I have to get up? Eventually.

You make the decision to have a child and you make the decision to mould them into a decent, strong, open-minded human being. The child, however, grows up (barely) to have his/her own ideas which, in my situation, sh-t on every single plan I had. Isn’t that a shame? And how is that ok? For the past three weeks, Sofia has cried every single day for reasons that should not exist and, in fact, had not existed in our lives any time prior. After generously displaying all the heartache her ballet sub teacher was supposedly causing her, she smoothly transitioned to the same display of distress caused by… another teacher? Which is when it started to hit home that it’s never been about any teacher – Baby wants to see how much sh-t she can stir and get away with. I can tell you now: a lot. She doesn’t want to make physical work part of her life and challenges my attitude towards it. “I am not going to be a ballerina, why do I have to go then, I hate ballet” – but with extra drama of crocodile tears and physical refusal to leave home minutes before we have to bounce. This would not be the worst part, the worst would be that I actually made a promise to beg the “aggressive” teachers to back off – the only way Sofia agreed to attend the coming lesson – which I did, only to find out every single thing she pretended to fear about them had been a lie. I have humiliated a grown-ass person who is great at their job. I hate this with my every cell.

Swiftly moving on though, no rest for the wicked, who’s got time to enjoy life when you can keep crying till your eye balls no longer have feelings? This time, let’s question these idiotic trousers the school’s made compulsory uniform. Some girls, you see, are above the uniform rule and turn up in leggings, and if there was ever a life worth living it could only be one lived in leggings, if you don’t believe this ask my daughter. The list goes the f-ck on. It’s about not wanting to go to the cinema, not wanting to wear trainers to a dancing class, not wanting to go to dad’s (a blatant lie), not wanting to wear a hairband with a ponytail when working out (strictly flowing locks with hair bands, didn’t you know?) – and lest you think I’m kidding about the waterworks, I promise you the crying is so intense I am shocked there’re still tears left in her. I guess tears don’t run out? Bummer.

“I never get to do what I want to do!” – you’ve not felt rage until you’ve heard a spoiled 7-year-old brat wrongfully accuse you. I have said before, mostly in defensive arguments (hi, mum!), that although raising a teenager probably will be as difficult as everyone and their mother warns you it would be, I am looking forward to the challenge, I think this could be one of the most rewarding challenges of motherhood. Correction: I WAS looking forward to it, I THOUGHT it would be rewarding. F-ck that.