Battle Ground of a Parent

Psychological warfare is the daily battle ground of a parent. The moment that screaming, adorable bundle of joy enters the world you are thrown a sunder by the miracle of life. Caught off guard, you struggle through lessons that only experience can teach. The months of sleepless nights are merely a trial to see if you are worthy for the years ahead. As you endure, you will be tested with bio weapons of various bodily fluids, and you will develop a stomach of steel. Your veins will flow with luke warm with java as you learn to juggle your babe and all the things they need.

Each day, your patience will burn as you hold in your agony until the moment your husband walks in the door, and you feel like back up has arrived. You will cry buckets of tears and bite your tongue, as your child ages and finds that their favorite toy is their mommy jungle gym. Bruises of various colours will decorate your flesh, along with countless scratches that give you pause to wonder “where did that come from?”. You will lose your hair, not from stress but from the strong hands of a toddler capable of lifting their own body weight.

A realization will hit you. You house, however small or large, has a tremendous amount of stairs which you will never be able to avoid no matter which level you stay upon. You will learn to curse silently under your breath, rolling your eyes in secret. It won’t seem odd at all to put a child lock on the pantry door and hide inside with the lights off; after all you will be well nourished. Every parent will learn what it means to be a “snack bitch”, and suffer the wrath of a screaming toddler if you dare travel to the kitchen and forget what you meant to grab. You will feel like a pervert checking your child for wet pants during the potty training years, and you will sport a utility belt of cleaning spray and baby wipes. Out of curiosity, you will wonder why puppies are easier to house train than an angry toddler.

Bed time will become a dreaded fight for supremacy. You will find yourself questioning the ethics involved in the use of sleep aids (pacifying and medicinal) to elicit eventual sleep. You will stare at the baby monitor, flinching at every movement or sound you bear witness too. Only when your eyes become too heavy to prop open will you retreat to the comfort of your own bed. You will utter countless threats in dire hope they will never be called into fruition. And you will ask pointless questions that you never expected to hear yourself say, such as “why are you drinking the toilet water?” Those days of relaxing phone conversations with friends will be inundated with back ground screaming and time outs shouted into the ears of your listener. Tanks of gas will be wasted while your kids are strapped firmly into their seats as you get you brave the drive thru for a much needed coffee. You will drive the long way home because your progeny have fallen asleep. Hope will whisper that maybe, just maybe, you can finish this drink before it gets cold.

Much to your surprise, you will master the art of bribery and deceit, praying that your kids never learn these secret skills you covet in your arsenal. But then it happens. You fall victim to your child’s most heinous of weapons, worse than snotty noses, screaming fits, or smeared poop on a toilet seat. Your child will approach you with arms extended. Your child will capture your leg in a surprise embrace and, peering at you will a cherub smile, they will defeat you will three little words, “I love you.” This is your kryptonite. You can not resist raising the white flag of surrender, forgiving all the terrible moments of suffrage—until tomorrow.