As I sit down to write this, Ruth is begrudingly staightening her room after being told she would not go to Build-A- Bear this afternoon if I couldn't see a place to keep her new treasure. Her first line of defense against cleaning? To tell me she'd declared Saturday a "ME" day which meant she only did what she wanted today and cleaning her room was not on that list. I pulled the mommy card and sadly reminded her that she did not have the luxury or authority to tell me she wasn't fulfilling my requests today and since I'm the only one who can drive her to Build-A-Bear she might want to get on that.
Dude, being a mom has been rough lately. Rather than appreciate Ruth's creative nature and whimsical side I find it grating on my nerves. Does it really have to take five minutes to walk to the car in the morning because she's spied a flock of birds and wants to tell me their life's journey or noticed condensation on the car windows (and wants to draw in it)? When it happens, I'm rushed, I'm already running on fumes rather than fuel, and all I really want to do is make it from point A to point B in one piece.
...and then I feel like the most ungrateful, horrible mother in the world.
I've been given someone amazing. I should stop rushing and worrying and take a lesson from the little girl who turned to me this morning after a Food Network commercial for The Worst Cooks in America aired and said, "I could never be on that show... I make brownies with special parts of my heart."