Revenge of the Children

Elisa is by far my worldliest bloggy friend. Born in Sardinia, she has lived in Milan, Los Angeles, Copenhagen, Zurich, and now New York. And, of course, she married a Swiss man– an American would just not have cut it for this fashionista. Elisa blogs at Diary of an Unlikely Housewife, and is always twittering about her amazing finds. If you don’t follow her, you’re missing out on the some incredible shopping steals and a woman with a heart of gold, who has the occasional mean moment…

I’m not trying to steal any thunder from Jana, but I do have my mean mom moments. I wasn’t born into the “stern” school of parenting, but I was born in Italy, where mom is the boss – and boy, do I enjoy my role as boss ;-)

Italians tend to be of the viewpoint that mom knows best, and that comes in quite handy. Also, Italian moms develop a bossy, controlling streak quite early in life – but manage to balance that out by being affectionate, fun-loving and awesome cooks, so everyone loves them despite the tendency to occasionally play dictator.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t expect my kids to obey like little soldiers, but I do sometimes want them to do things they don’t like to do. Tidying up is definitely on top of the list. Their room is a constant mess. Even when I do dive in and declutter and re-organize and move beds and dressers and vacuum everywhere, it still only lasts for a few hours, half a day tops. And my daughters seem to have inherited my dislike for household chores, so they are not so happy with me when I make them tidy up.

Sarah, my 10-year old, doesn’t usually call me “mean” – she is very Swiss in a way, so not always vocal about her feelings – but she has a face she makes when she thinks I’m being mean.  She makes the face, which I guess would be a glare if she had a mean bone in her body herself, and then stomps away. Occasionally, she will add “that’s not fair”, but she usually does the wannabe-glare and stomp combo. Actions speak louder than words, don’t they?

Unless you are Stella, that is. In her case, words can definitely be louder. She is now in the Terrible Threes, and it’s not exactly a walk in the park. I used to laugh at the Terrible Twos cliché, because really, what was so terrible about her? That she made a mess? Big whoop, I’m messy too. Then a few weeks ago, right around her third birthday, the tantrum started. The ones from the jokes, the ones from comedies, because a child screaming and throwing himself on the floor is not funny anywhere else, really.

So Stella chooses a radically different approach from her sister. And I have to admit I’m kind of scared of the day they decide to gang up on me. Then it’ll be payback for all the times I made them tidy up their room.