triumphs / uncategorized Queen of the Castle | Better Way Moms
Today is May 18, 2012

Single Moms

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Queen of the Castle

Queen of The Castle

Let me preface this post by saying that I think that E and I have a pretty good relationship. I mean, as far as a relationship that you have with an almost seven-year old who continually asks questions like, “What would you rather kiss — a pigeon, a rat or a monkey?” (By the way, there is no right answer to this question. When I replied, “A monkey,” he took it a step further by asking, “What if the monkey just came out of the garbage?” He’ll make a fine police investigator someday.)

However, I must admit that I am a pretty firm believer in the distinct parent-child roles in a relationship. I know there are plenty of people who refer to their parents as their “friends.” Or those who tell their parents everything, or ask their advice on personal matters. Yeah, that’s so not me. My mother did not even find out that I was separated until she asked me point blank. And I know that she wishes deep in her heart of hearts that I would talk to her about my divorce. My stock answer for her is, “Please stop asking me since I am never going to tell you anything.” I’m not being mean. I just never felt comfortable talking about those kinds of things with her.

I view my household as a monarchy. Much more so now than ever since I am the only throne-worthy adult in the apartment.  Certainly not a dictatorship, although I do have those days. And not a democracy, either (although I do have those days as well). I prefer to think of myself as a benevolent monarch who has very specific rules for the land she rules: good listening and green veggies are looked upon kindly. Meltdowns and tantrums could land you in the dungeon (or time-out, as you will).

Since I am the only grown-up at home, I get to make the rules, right? At least I thought that’s how it was supposed to work. Yet ever once in a while the exiled king attempts a coup d’etat. E and I came home late one night and I decided to time-crunch and have us take a shower together.

“Oh, no,” he said, “My dad said I’m not allowed to shower with you.”

“Excuse me? Well since he doesn’t live here, he doesn’t make the rules.”

“But he used to live here.”

“That’s true, baby, and when he did we made the rules together.” (Meanwhile the bathroom is filling up with steam.) “Just like I don’t make the rules at his house. Because if I did…you would never, ever have Cookie Crisp for breakfast!”

We were clean in eight minutes flat.

My lone subject is a loyal one. Usually. But since he may take over the kingdom one day, I try to rule with a strict but fair hand. Nevertheless, slight uprisings occur occasionally. Here is one that happened a few months ago:

I was getting ready to go out, so I was doing some female grooming ritual in the bathroom. E was keeping busy playing games on the computer until he approached my chamber.

“Mommy, can I print?”

“No, honey, not today. Sorry, love.”

“How come?”

“Because we hardly have any paper left and I think I need to print something out for your school tomorrow. I promise to buy more paper soon.”

“Please.”

“Sweetie — I’m sorry. Just not today, okay.” And I went back to plucking, tweezing, or whatever else I was doing.

“You’re going to make me like Daddy better.” (Are you a single mom? Did that statement just make your head almost explode? I hear you loud and clear, sister.)

Now I believe that every mother should have a “don’t-f***-with-me” look in her arsenal. It should be employed very, very rarely. But, when used, it is ruthlessly effective. I whipped my head around so fast that I could have taught that possessed girl from “The Exorcist” a thing or two. E actually took a step back.

“Sorry, mommy, I’m sorry.”

And he hightailed it back to the office, yelling over his shoulder, “I love you.”

Long live the queen.

Author: Stacey Linden

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