It seems that we are hitting a little rough patch in our family union.  In the past week I have suddenly become my children’s bitch, not their mother. 

(Please do excuse the language; there is just no other way to term it accurately.)

Instead of being their beloved mother, I am the bane of their existence, the person that stands in the way of their bonding with Daddy, the person that does everything different than Daddy, the person that is so opposite of Daddy that she is completely and totally offensive, requiring screaming, yelling and thrashing in the highest degree.  Fun.

It seems that with sickness and work schedules conflicting, time with Daddy is at an all time low, making him the most coveted novelty around, more so than even candy and “bussert.” 

Everyday tasks that I have done so many times that I no longer need to be awake to do them have suddenly become controversial.

“I want Daddy do it!” Kyan says as I change his disgusting diaper for the 10^th time that day.  “Daddy blows on my butt before he puts the Dessy on.  You’re not doing it right! Where’s Daaaaady???”

“Daddy cracks the eggs in the bowl first, not in the frying pan.  That’s why his taste better. Daddy’s such a good cook.  Why can’t you cook like Daddy?” Brooklyn and Kyan ask as they supervise the progress of their breakfast each morning (cause Lord knows the prince and princess of the house could never lower themselves to eat such a humble thing as cold cereal in the morning…)

“Daddy does tricks with my milk. No! Not like that” Kyan screeches then pauses for a complete meltdown of sobbing on the floor. “You’re ruining everything!”

“DaDaaaa.  DaaaaDa.  DaDaDaDa DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.” The babies yell as they fight, poo, cry and fight some more.

Whatever.

Now, I know a little bit of this is normal and if I took my issue into my ECFE “mommy time” on Wednesday, I’d hear a lot of tales of the same events happening all across the city, if not world, but I’m convinced this is different.

I’m convinced that I have done something in my children’s formative years that has turned them against me, and I have another 18 years to look forward to being the fodder for their abusive rap lyrics.

I am convinced that they are acting this way just to spite me, not really caring whether it is Daddy or me caring for their endless needs, doing it only to see how far they have to push me before I lose it.

I am convinced that my lack of ability to consistently and effectively discipline them is going to turn them into hard core criminals by middle school and I will still be there, bringing them brownies, trying to touch their hand through the plexiglass wall, just wanting them to know that I love them, no matter how many people they mug and how much they spit at me.

Hopefully I’m wrong and this is just a natural phase that will be remedied once we are more occupied and don’t have as much time to focus on all the things that I’m not.

As for now, I just have to suck it up and deal with it. Maybe I should take a vacation, give them an extended time alone with Daddy and see just how fun it is when I’m gone. 

Maybe then they’d know how good they have it. 

Or maybe they’ll be even more infatuated and spend the time fashioning me a room in the garage—a reality that might not be that bad...