Incompetent Boob (That'd be Me!)

I’ve been a parent for almost fifteen years now, and although I’m not perfect I have felt like I’ve been making progress—until the last six months. My five-year-old has progressively been making me feel like an incompetent boob. I’m not sure how I let this happen. I’m an adult—a professional who works with complicated business financial statements and still manages to (mostly) avoid making regrettable fashion decisions. I’ve always felt that what I lack in experience I make up in willingness to learn and the ability to generally pick things up quickly. So why is it that I find myself having a yelling standoff with my daughter over doing her hair for school picture day? When I play the moment back in slow motion in my head I look like a crazed Sue Sylvester screaming that Will Schuster’s chin looks like a baby’s butt. This can’t be me! What happened?




I think that my brain started to short circuit when she forced me to have a deep, meaningful relationship with her stuffed bear. Last night, as we’re in an auditorium filled with boy scouts, she shoves Shiver (the stuffed bear) in my face. “Mom, Shiver needs a hug.” I hug the white (well, it’s actually dirty brown from all her loving) bear and hand it back to her. Then Shiver begins dancing in front of my face, visits the poor woman who had the bad-luck to sit next to us and sits on my head. I finally whisper sternly, “Honey, Mommy wants you to take care of Shiver now. Don’t put Shiver in anyone’s face—she might catch a cold.” Shiver then tries to clap hands with me, take out my earring, and dial my cell phone. I finally take Shiver away and stash her under the chair. My daughter bursts out in tears and literally screams, “you HATE Shiver! You HATE her.” Can we all just say, “awkward?” I turned seven shades of red and wished I could melt into my uncomfortable metal seat.

I can blame it all on Shiver, but it’s probably unfair. She wasn’t even present this morning when I was blowing raspberries at my daughter’s retreating back. Again I ask, how did I get to this point? I haven’t blown a raspberry since Elementary School. It started the moment she woke up. She is NOT a morning person and, unfortunately, school starts in the morning. She shuffles into my bathroom wearing a beautiful blue satin nightgown that makes her feel like a princess. Her hair looks like it was styled using an emulsion blender and there’s a snarl on her face. She’s ticked off because she wants to wear her favorite purple outfit for pictures except that it’s not her favorite anymore because it has pants and she really wants to wear the shirt like a dress. I try to explain the concepts, “micro-mini’s’ and “floosy,” but she wants me to perform a magic act and turn her shirt into a dress. Screaming ensues and I stuff her into the purple outfit. Then I start doing her hair—a nice curly bun surrounded by bows. She looks adorable except for the daggers that are ricocheting off the mirror out of her eyes. “Mom! I told you I want a braid.” I try to explain that she’ll look like she doesn’t have any hair if I pull it all back for pictures, but she’s already moved on to hating the bun because there are too many bows in it. I remove a bow, and now she tells me that it looks stupid. I add a flower and that looks “lame.” I throw my hands up in defeat and retreat. She steps out of the bathroom and gives me a full-on raspberry. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Why didn’t I just put her in time-out? Because she melts my brain and I can’t think straight—that’s why. My oh-so-grown-up response? Blowing a raspberry back.

By the way, we will no longer be friends if you say, “just wait until she’s a teenager.” If you say one word, so help me, I will shoot a spit-wad at you.