I am apparently a horrible mother, as this is my son's mantra of late. Either that or he's taking early lessons in Guilting Your Mother. Tonight I am hated because I made him eat three (count 'em, THREE) bites of spaghetti. With meatballs. Last night it was because he got put in time out (for his attitude, of all things). Every day its something new and awful that I make him suffer, and every day I'm advised that for this, I am hated. Its a strange ritual. I waffle between thinking that its no big deal and this, too, shall pass, and between wondering if there is such a thing as shaken baby syndrome for a four year old because I'm so tempted to, you know, shake him. I remember my daughter saying this to me, but not with the regularity of her brother. She did outdo him in the dramatic delivery part, though. Her delivery was usually punctuated by falling on the floor and drawing out the HAAAAAATE or the YOOUUUUUU, and normally howled rather than spoken. Fortunately it had a limited phase with her, which probably contributes to the fact that she's still alive today.
In retrospect, I am sure my mother owes me a long and painful demise in reparation for the many horrible and evil things I said to her over the years. The worst - the ABSOLUTE worst - was telling her "You're not my real mother!" I'm adopted, and this was the most dramatic and awful thing I could say to her. I'm surprised she didn't knock me out. Come to think of it, she pretty much ignored me. I have to guess that she was probably really upset about it, though. The irony is that I met my birthmother in my thirties, and to this day if anyone who knows my adoption/reunion story asks me if I talk to my "mother" I get rather indignant about it. That Woman is NOT my mother. She was, at best, my incubator. My mother is the woman who raised me. I don't say this to be judgmental of or unkind to birth mothers. Some of the finest (and most messed up) people I have ever met are birthmothers, though I have to say I love the Bastards the best. But my birthmonster...ugh. Hell will be too fine a place for her when she finally has the good grace to die. I'll go into it in more detail someday when I'm feeling up to it.
So my son continues to blaspheme my motherhood...and I have yet to smite him. Boy has no idea how lucky he is that I let him continue to breathe.