Being a Mom is the hardest thing in the World

I have always said that becoming a mother did two very important things to me. It showed me the very best things about me that I never knew about, things like strength and patience. But it also has brought out the demons within. The worst character traits I never knew I possessed have raised their evil yellow eyes out of the swamp of my darker side. I have scared myself sometimes with the things I have said, I have felt, I have thought of doing to other people, to myself, to my kids. And these two extremes seem to wage war over the possession of my very fragile state of mind every day of my life.

Today I question whether the better half of me has the upper hand. I somehow don't think so. I suppose it has something to do with the fact that I just don't seem to be seeing eye-to-eye with my offspring. It seems that I have become as unimportant and as distasteful to my kids as dog poo on the sidewalk. I speak. I beg. I plead. I beckon. I call. I ask. I reason. I beseach. And they don't batt an eyelid. They ignore me as if I wasn't even there. I could stand on my head and whistle the national anthem from my arse and all they might do is say "Mom, I'm hungry. When's lunch?"

I am tired. I'm exhausted. What more must I do? I feel like I've been doing everything I can to raise respectable, sensitive, polite little princesses, and all I can say is that if you could hear the conversation coming from their bathtub right now, you would know just how awfully I am failing.

AirBear: "Let's say square words."

T-Bird: "Ok, Shut up, shut up, shut up."

AirBear: "And poo-poo head."

T-Bird: "Shut up, Poo-poo head."

AirBear: "In the toilet!"

T-Bird & Airbear in delighted chorus: "Shut-up Poo-poo head in the toilet!"

Over and over and over again. And sadly, I have to say that the demure 3-year old that I treat with great care because of her dear sensitive little soul, seems to be the instigator of this vile ode to the lavatory.

What am I supposed to do? I ask you with tears in my eyes - is there something I have missed here, or have I been seriously negligent in setting standards? Will my kids ever get clean in the bubbles that froth around them, or am I to resign myself to the raising of blemished, imperfect individuals?