Thursday, January 19, 2012

Parents, we're always wrong, right?

I know I'm not alone in this motherly gripe.  This is not an autistic thing or let's narrow it down further, shall we? - an Aspergian thing - an issue whereas my smart ass kids need to show up their mother in every possible thing she does.  No, all teens do this.  It doesn't matter who they are or what disability is attached to their mental health records.  Kids earn the title, "Smart Ass" the moment the piss ants blow out thirteen candles on their birthday cakes.  It's confirmed.  I know, I've personally experienced it.

My adopted son, Austynn recently turned thirteen.  In his disability file it's noted that his behavior can exhibit childlike tendencies of an eight year old.  He's still catching up.  It doesn't matter.  He blew out thirteen candles a few months ago.  In my eyes, he's graduated to that awful level of "Smart Assdom".

Last night he showed me a lovely side of it and I showed the lovely side of holding my temper and walking away.

I, in my infinite need to please my son, purchased a bathrobe hook for his closet a few days ago.  It's not permanent but instead one which has removable tape that in a few years can peel off if necessary.  I made the dreadful mistake of throwing the packaging away in his bathroom.  Austynn, being one who never reads instructions but instead only looks at the pictures, told me that I put it up wrong.  So he, in his infinite wisdom, took off the hook, removed all the tape, and reapplied the hook "correctly".  Breathe mama.

When I tried to explain that he removed the tape necessary to keep the paint from peeling off the wall down the road, he continuously interrupted me, told me to look at the pictures, and insisted that he was right.  My breathing turned into spazmatic, grievous, horrifying fits of rage.  I was exhausted.  I had an incredibly long day.  I was standing in front of my smart ass thirteen year old giving me attitude waiting for me to make his bed with clean sheets, in a room he didn't bother to pick up after breakfast, after having just served him dinner that I prepared at 2:00 in the afternoon because I had three appointments to take him to that day.  Deep breath.  This was not to be borne!

I felt my eyes bulge to such a level that I truly thought they were going to pop out of my head.  All the blood which had drained to the bottom of my exhausted feet had rushed now to my heated cheeks.  The voice that exploded out of my mouth was not my own...it was demonic.  I don't - for the most part - remember all that I screamed other than the last six words..."or I'm going to beat you!"

This is when my husband rescued me.  I shoved the clean bedding into his hands and walked out of the room.  Of course, I would never beat my son.  I would never consider it.  Just words - complete and utter frustration.  I was done.  Mama had left the building, figuratively speaking.  I lay in a crumpled, comatose mess on my bed unable to move.  Such small things can drive us over the edge but really, can't I just get through one day, ONE DAY without one of my kids telling me, "I'm wrong"?


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