Three-year-old Andy barreled into the kitchen, full of indignant toddler rage. “Mowwy’s bweaving too loud, Mommy!” he whined, his cherubic face set in a scowl. So much for my quiet coffee break. The tattling had begun, and the sun wasn’t even up yet – a new record! I could be unconscious, and my kids would still complain to me. They’d perch on my chest like vultures, watching me and whispering “she got more candy than meeee” while I ignore their demon mutterings. Parenthood is fun! (Not actual fun, more like riding a gasoline soaked carousel next to a bonfire).
“Your sister is allowed to BREATHE, sweetie,” I sighed as I turned to face Andy.
“She’s doing it wong on purpose,” he huffed, stomping his foot for emphasis.
“I am NOT!” six-year-old Molly called from the living room. “He stole my spot on the couch and he’s lying!” Before I could blink, my offspring were engaged in an all-out screaming match, both insisting that justice be done. I stared mournfully at my cup of coffee, now rapidly cooling on the table. I should switch to espresso – a shot of that gets the job done and I could drink it while it’s hot!
What are kids hoping to gain by tattling? Praise? Extra credit? They must think I’m keeping score somewhere. How did this even happen? I’m teaching my kids to be assertive at the cost of my sanity! Was it better when Andy was younger, and hadn’t learned to speak yet? Not really. There was just more unintelligible shrieking and crying (most of it mine). Instead of spending the next eighteen years refereeing pointless fights, I should run away to Mongolia and herd yaks. Maybe then I could finish a cup of coffee!
The injustices of childhood are many, and for kids, it’s the small battles that count. Your sister’s cookie theft can fester for decades, and your brother’s destruction of a toy is an open wound. I still remember the myriad of catfights I had with my sister, Emma, and it’s been twenty years! Once, she and I were ordered to clean the kitchen, and Emma was shirking her duty (as usual), so I threw a dishrag at her. Outraged, she grabbed the spray head from the sink and sprayed me with water. The joke was on her, though; she had to frantically mop the floor lest our mother send her to eternal timeout.
Tattling is a rite of passage. I’ve yet to meet a pair of siblings that don’t bicker, and if they exist, they’re likely from another planet. Seriously, how weird would that be? I’m imagining dead-eyed children staring straight ahead, plotting my demise. Children of the Corn, indeed! But why do kids tattle so much? Is it really important who sits on the end of the couch? Or who gets the first cookie out of the package? Why does my sanity depend on two children who argue over whose turn it is to pet the dog? The dog wants to be left alone! Just like me! Why do……….. ugh, hang on. World War Three’s broken out again. Andy’s losing his mind because Molly is looking at him. Once again, Judge Mommy forgets her precious coffee, and rushes in before the war goes nuclear!
