My children don't fear me, and that is a problem

You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow!

Hello to my beautiful, intelligent, incredibly good-looking and super-sexy subscribers! (Yes, I’m shamelessly buttering you up!) It’s me, Sara, back with my big old box of shit for another week. Ready to open the lid? 

I recently posted a note on Substack with a list of reasons why I know that I have broken the intergenerational chain of fear with my children. 

The list contains a number of things my children are not afraid to do, including, but not limited to:

• Calling my cooking “GROSS” and “DISGUSTING” and ‘WHY WOULD YOU FORCE ME TO EAT THIS?” 

• Walking in on me in the shower and asking me why my boobies are so “down”. (Clue: It’s your fault, kids!)

• Throwing a Cabbage Patch Doll at the TV and cracking the screen in a fit of rage.

• Not listening to a single fucking thing I say.

• Talking at me loudly in unison, so my brain starts short-circuiting through sheer overstimulation.

• Eating $500 worth of food per week (except my cooking).  

• Waiting till I’m on an important call to start yelling “Muuuuuuuuummmm!!!!”  

• Shitting in the toilet and not flushing it and/or leaving skid marks in the bowl.

• Farting at the dinner table. 

• Talking to me before 6 am, a crime so heinous it needs a special team to investigate it.

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After sharing this, lots of you (OK, like five who commented) found this relatable and INCREDIBLY FUNNY (I live to make you laugh). It got me thinking about how things change through the generations. We assume it is a positive sign that our kids feel so free and fearless around us…but have we gone too far?

I want to preface this by saying I have tried to raise my kids not to be foul, belligerent, skid-marked tyrants. LORD KNOW I HAVE TRIED. And look, sometimes they are actual angels sent from heaven, but a lot of the time, they take BIG FUCKING liberties that I never would have dreamed of taking as a kid. 

And I’m not out there gentle parenting with my soft voice and perfectly calibrated eye contact. If that approach works for you, then great, but I think gentle parenting is probably suited to gentle kids, not cocaine bear cubs. There’s no way Cocaine Mama Bear is getting down to her crazy cubs’ eye-level and talking to them earnestly about their feelings while they tear a deer carcass from limb to limb. I’m not saying my kids would do this, but they’ve been known to tear my patience from limb to limb.  

All of this is to say, I can be pretty firm with my kids, but ultimately, those little monsters know I love them unconditionally, and don’t find my raised voice and hollow threats to be least bit scary.

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My mum came over last Sunday. She finds my children to be “A LOT”. I was an only child, so our household was very quiet and controlled (up to the age of fourteen when I fucking LOST IT. A story for another day). 

My parents grew up in the “children should be seen and not heard” era, and while my mum didn’t subscribe to that type of parenting with me, some remnants remained. For example, she expects kids not to interrupt adults when they’re talking. I mean, this is a great theory, and we did try the Bluey-approved approach: 

“Hey buddy, I know it’s hard to wait when you want my attention to me, but if you put your hand on my arm, I’ll know you’re waiting to speak.” 

That lasted a few weeks until they reverted to just entering a room and blasting their mouths off while I was mid-conversation. “MUM! I NEED YOU TO LOOK AT THIS LEGO I HAVE BUILT URGENTLY, AND I ALSO SPILT A DRINK ON THE RUG.” 

My mum gets visibly agitated when my kids bowl into the kitchen like a pack of ravenous gremlins, stick their fingers in the cheese platter, bicker loudly nonstop and run through the house screaming. 

To be clear, I too, find all this very overstimulating. But do you know what makes these situations even more stressful? My mum’s judgement searing into me like a shark with frickin laser beams on its head. 

When she makes comments like, “You would never have behaved like that”, “You never spoke like that,” I’m a mere bee’s dick away from saying, “I DON’T THINK YOU SHOULD HOLD UP YOUR APPROACH AS THE PINNACLE OF PARENTING BECAUSE WE HAVE NO DISCERNIBLE BOND AND I HAVEN’T SHARED A SINGLE PERSONAL THING ABOUT MY LIFE WITH YOU SINCE I WAS 14 AND YOU READ MY DIARY.” 

(My therapist is currently nodding his head that I’ve just unpicked a new scab from the mother wound.)

Yes, I “behaved”, but that’s because I was a bit scared. I don’t mean I was living in terror, but there was an expectation to behave in a certain way and consequences if you didn’t. And listen, I’m not pinning this all on my parents. Most friends my age agree that we didn’t behave how our kids do because we knew the shit would hit the fan. 

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So, are our kids better off now being the completely fearless and unfiltered versions of themselves? That’s a rhetorical question, by the way. I have no fucking clue. 

What I can tell you that this week things did get scary. I was solo parenting because my partner was travelling for work. The kids’ fighting had reached the kind of “Code Red” level that causes parents to daydream about being injured — not seriously — but just enough to be laid up alone in bed for a few weeks.

I was also working and juggling all the usual household shite — cooking, cleaning, shopping, dropping, collecting, mediating, finding, wiping, packing, unpacking, washing, hanging (laundry, not myself though it’s tempting), folding and putting mutha-fucking-away-ing. 

Plus, let me tell you, I was feeling VERY HORMONAL. The red mist was collecting around my ankles and rising rapidly to my eyeballs.

“Kids, we’ve gotta walk the dog; she hasn’t been out today, and she’s digging holes in the garden.”

“I’m not walking the stupid dog!” 

“I thought you loved the dog?”

“I do, but I don’t want to take her for a stupid walk cos I hate walks!” 

Palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy

“Mum, my face hurts.” 

“Mum, I can’t find my dancing T-shirt.” 

“Mum, where’s my Halloween costume?”

“Mum, what are we having for dinner?” 

“Lasagne” 

“I don’t want stupid lasagne!” 

“OK, go hungry then” 

“I hate you!” 

There's vomit on his sweater already, mom's spaghetti lasagne

“Mum, can I watch YouTube?” 

“I’m only helping if you let me watch YouTube!”

“MUM! I need a prop for my poetry recital tomorrow, and I can’t find anything.” 

“We are going to walk the dog now, and it’s not a question. Get your shoes on.” 

“I’M NOT GOING AND YOU CAN’T MAKE ME!’ 

“Mum.”

“Muuuuum.”

“MUUUUUM!”

You better lose your self in the music shit in the living room

The moment, you own it, you better never let it go (Go)

You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow!

And let me tell you, I DID FUCKING BLOW. I blew like Eyjafjallajökull (try saying that four times fast when you’re fucking furious), the volcano in Iceland that spat out so much fiery shit it grounded air travel in Europe for like a whole month. 

Yep, I had an adult tantrum of the highest order. I slammed the dishwasher door so hard I nearly smashed the entire contents to a fine dust. Then I stormed into the living room and threw my phone on the floor. Then I stomped outside and tripped on a massive fucking pile of shoes scattered around the shoe rack and not a solitary fucking sole on the actual fucking rack, so I kicked a bunch of shitty shoes into the air in an unbridled fit of mummy rage.

The shoes then set off the stupid Halloween witch we have outside our front door.

“HEY YOU KIDS! DON’T COME ROUND HERE THIS HALLOWEEN NIGHT! LEAVE THIS OLD WOMAN BE” 

I have never related to a Halloween decoration so much in my life — living alone in a cottage in the woods where children are too scared to come. JUST SAY WHEN.

I looked inside. The kids were sat there with their jaws hanging open, wondering what the fuck happened to their mum and who was this psycho hose beast? 

“JUST GO TO YOUR ROOMS!,” I shouted and they shuffled off quietly, looking sheepishly at each other. 

I took a some deep breaths as I tried to bring my nervous system back from the brink. Truly, hats off to single parents. Managing situations like this on your own is VERY FUCKING DIFFICULT.

After a few minutes, I walked back to their rooms to mend the emotional trauma I just inflicted on them, but as I got closer, I could hear them talking in hushed voices.

“Did you see her slam the dishwasher?” 

“Yes, that was so scary. And when she kicked the shoes!?” 

“Why is she being so crazy?”

Jesus, I really scared them. 

I opened the door slowly and peaked my head in. They all rushed towards me for a hug. Phew.

“We’re sorry mummy, they said in unison.” 

“I’m sorry too guys. I’m very tired and frustrated and lost my temper. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just need you to help me a bit more when dad’s not here, OK?” 

They nodded solemnly with their little sad eyes looking up at me. 

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The next morning, I was feeling refreshed and optimistic about a new day. I asked them to get ready for school while I went to grab a quick shower. When I came downstairs someone had been hit, someone was crying, someone was called a name, the contents of a lunchbox had been dropped on the floor and NO ONE WAS FUCKING DRESSED. 

No more games, I'ma change what you call rage
Tear this motherfuckin' roof off like two dogs caged

So I did the scariest thing of all. I didn’t yell, I didn’t rant.

I simply cancelled Halloween. No trick-or-treating, no chocolate, no lollies — nothing.

As you can imagine, everyone was suddenly on their best behaviour. They might not care about my mental and emotional well-being, but they sure as hell care about sugar and costumes.

“Can I do that for you mummy?” 

“Would you like some help mummy?” 

That was yesterday and I’m on a power trip to be honest. I have such potently valuable currency in my hands that I’m not letting go for nuthin or no one!

Will I really go through with it? I don’t know, but for the next 24 hours, I’m enjoying the fucking peace while I channel my inner witch.

“Hahahahahahahah” [evil cackle] 

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Thank you for opening Pandora’s Box of Shit with me this week! If this made you laugh, cry or lose control of your bowels (I do have a laxative effect), please hit the heart button to give my writing some love. If you want to bestow me with an honour of the highest order, please feel free to rant about your own life in the comments or re-stack this so others can feel less shit about their own parenting skills!

Big love till next time

Sara