Triumphant Parenting

It took me five times to spell triumphant right, just now, typing the title to this post. What a telling metaphor.

It dawned on me this morning as my kids barked at each other, shoved me out of the way to grab the milk jug and failed to appreciate the lunches I pulled together from the depleted contents of the pantry and fridge that I’m not doing a very good job raising polite, considerate kids. They are when it counts, mostly. They aren’t total rude jerks. But sometimes, when I’ve been treated to a symphony of burps and farts and not a one of them even has the grace to say “excuse me” because they are laughing too hard and high-fiving each other, well, it seems like there might be an indicator of parental laxitude.

My son came home from school yesterday with a quarter-sized bruise on his cheek. He had created suction in a water bottle and stuck it to his cheek for two hours apparently? He’s in eighth grade. I thought he had outgrown that type of thing, but no. So now he has a hickey on his face, and I’m attacking him with arnica every few hours, mostly for my own edification, because he thinks it is funny, mostly.

God help us all.


  1. I am nodding along in solidarity. I’m right there with you, girl. (It is such a relief to know I’m not alone!)

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