Mum Abuse

I should be feeling happy and relieved this evening, because it is the first time in several nights in a row that the boys are in bed by... 9pm, one hour past their normal bedtime. Because for the past several nights, they are still either playing, fighting, arguing, doing their homework, doing everything and anything besides going to bed. They would only be willing to sleep after some scoldings from me. Loud ones. I am sure the neighbours could hear. But who cares? I am the one facing the sh**, not them. At the most they would hear some murmurings from a distant. Nothing enough to hurt anyone like how I am hurting inside.

I cannot manage this anymore. I have tried all ways and means - telling them nicely, rewarding them with hugs and kisses, spending time with them, rewarding them with money, giving them warnings, flicking their ears, slapping them (yes, I do that, so what?), spanking them. Nothing works. OK, spanking does. It takes them more effort to come up with good behaviours and be rewarded with hugs and kisses than to behave badly and be spanked.

The torment they put me through every day for not listening to me is despicable. My patience has long since been thinned out. Three nights straight of not sleeping by eight is more than I could bear. It starts from waking them up in the morning. Apart from preparing breakfast and a snack box for each of them, reminding every 2 minutes what they have to do next has become such a nagging routine. I have tried it, not telling them what to do. It turned out so bad, they were just happily chit-chatting their time away, slowly eating their breakfast. Or worse, still sitting naked upstairs, too lazy to move his butt. I cannot understand what difficulties they are facing to complete just 8 simple tasks namely - waking up, washing their faces, change clothes, come downstairs for breakfast, pack snack box in school bag, brush teeth, apply cream on face, put on jacket, scarf, gloves, shoes. I don't even require them to make up their own beds. They don't even have to, for instance, spread butter and jam on their bread, because I have already done that for them. All they have to do is just open their mouth and eat them. I don't know what more I must do.

While they are in school, their room gets made-up, trash cleared, toys put away, towels changed, laundry done, fresh ones folded and kept, meal prepared and cooked, house cleaned. All the time, psycho-ing myself to exercise patience with them when I see them later, reminding myself to understand that these are just playful kids and their nonsense is a part of their growing up process. And when I think I have decided (read: d-e-c-i-e-v-e-d myself) to be happy when I see them, their first set of nonsense would crumble me in a flash.

Oh and don't tell me I am not trying hard enough. You are not me. You have never, ever been put in my situation for even half a day, so don't you judge me. Who doesn't know to want to be happy is a decision? If that decision is so straight-forward and idiot-proof, why are there still so many miserable people? You think I don't want to be happy?!

When they come home from school, it is another definite and inevitable battle between mother and sons. Four boys against one mother. In fact, the anger stems from fetching them in school. It seems like my whole life is to wait for them, wait on them. I have to wait for them to slowly change their shoes, put on jackets, chat with their friends along the way, say their goodbyes to their daycare caretakers. When we are finally out of the school building, they continue to talk to their friends, now with the snow, it is worse. They must stop to make snow balls, throw snow balls at each other, pick up big blocks of hardened snow, kick the snow, sink their boots into the snow. So much so that I have to keep turning back to see if they are still walking behind me. Tirelessly calling out to them to catch up is my only repetitive one-way conversation with them. Of course, most of the time I look like I am just talking to myself.

When we are finally home, there is another set of routine that they should know by heart, but would prefer to act upon only after some military-like commands, they are: taking out their snack boxes, hanging their jackets, scarves and taking out their homework. If their homework is completed in school, I would have less stress. But most of the time, they are not completed. Not because they are given too much to do, but because they are too playful and distracted.

I have less than 4 hours every day to achieve these things with them by 8pm: doing and checking their homework with them, practise reading, shower, have dinner, wash up, be in bed. Not overly challenging, reasonably attainable tasks, but discipline must be in place for execution. I can only describe each of them as a cube-ball. As it is not round, it doesn't roll when I kick or push it. For each move (to finish a task), it is applied with a push (reminder), and almost all the time, not just one push but aplenty. Less than 4 hours. 4 uncooperative boys. Imagine the dread yourself. Use your wildest imagination.

I am feeling so much agony. I am more than broken. It is extreme. Tonight, I have undoubtedly reached my wit's end. Tonight, I scolded them, yet again. Tonight, I couldn't hold my emotions till they are out of my sight. Tonight, they watch their mother break down in sobs and tears. That is why they are in bed by 9pm tonight. That is why I am not feeling happy nor relieved.

I am absolutely sure I am doing something wrong. I am positively certain that I am wrong. Not them. Because they are kids. Because I am supposed to be the matured and sensible adult. Because they are children. Because the adult is expected to be level-headed, rationale, fair and always be on top of things. ALWAYS.

The truth is, I am not. I like to think that I am at most time. However, that is my perception of myself. Can be entirely opposite.

Yet I usually post happy entries, of them having so much fun, of how much my love is for them. It is so heart-warming to read, to watch (the videos). I push away writing about my frustrations of being their mother, unconsciously creating a false impression of that I am oh such a happy mother, such a lucky woman. Who am I trying to fool? I am so pathetic. I am such a loser.

Feeling emotionally bruised from all their unintentional but nonetheless nasty bashings, my higher than average energy is completely drained out. Completely. Drained. Out.