Tag Archives: anger management

Reasons Why I Might Cancel Last Minute

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1. I might be exhausted. I’ve got 1 year old twins and a 4 year old. That’s wonderful but exhausting.

2. One of the three kids could be exploding with vomit. They love to share illness and when they’re sick they need mum.

3. My babysitter fell through.

4. I don’t feel comfortable going out at night. I haven’t felt safe being on my own at night since I was raped at 16. I really do make an effort to do things at night but it makes me physically ill each and every time. Don’t get mad at me for the times I don’t go, please be thankful for the times I do go because it is seriously a big fucking deal for me each and every time. And yes, I might be meeting you somewhere so you think I’m not out alone at night but the journey there and back is on my own. It doesn’t matter how you try to convince me that my fears are stupid they are still there. Generally I just say no straight out to evening events but I have been trying to expand my confidence. I can’t always get myself over that line. You want me over that line, then you need to walk with me over it. Simple.

5. You’ve invited me and my kids and the kids will be batshit crazy tired and angry and I just can’t put them through that.

Woman Screams at Stranger’s Baby; Social Media Applauded

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Title says it all but just in case you’re not familiar with the case I’ll give you a quick summary:

2 yr old cries at diner
Less than 5 minutes later owner comes out and screams in baby’s face to shut up
Owner stands by actions
People on social media applaud and claim that’s good discipline and what the parents should have done
Owner changes story to say it was 45 minutes of screaming and she warned the parents repeatedly and screamed across the counter at the baby
Parents and most people at the diner say NOPE first story is correct
Social media still praises owner for screaming at baby

So, there you have it. Here’s the issue that is really grinding my gears, the sheer quantity of people out there stating that screaming at kids should be done, and that it is necessary for proper discipline. I’d usually say something sarcastic here but I have now lost faith in a significant proportion of society and don’t believe that they would get the point,  so I’ll skip it and be direct. Screaming at another human being does not show that you are a powerful force for discipline ad good. Screaming at another human being means that either you are a child that has not learnt to manage your emotions and communicate more effectively in other ways than tantrums OR you are an adult who has not learned how to control your own actions OR you have lost control. So how is it that by losing control and screaming like a tantruming child, except bigger and stronger, that a baby or child could possibly learn self control and discipline in response? If adults cannot model good behaviour how can we expect children to pick it up? Monkey see, monkey do. Baby see, baby do.

I am not saying that I have never had a subpar parenting moment but I sure as shit haven’t patted myself on the back afterwards and said, “Good job for losing it.” I’ve sympathised with friends who have had similarly weak moments and said, “It’s hard, we’ll get there, they’ll get there, everybody makes mistakes.” I have not said, “Good job, scream at that little fucker some more. Screaming and throwing a tatrum is exactly how we should teach our kids. Good work, your meltdown will totally teach them not to throw tantrums.”

In other words I am utterly aghast at the moment. I am horrified that I live in this world where this kind of thing is praised and called good discipline. And futher to that, people can’t even seem to comprehend that there are any other methods for instilling good values and discipline in your kids other than screaming or hitting. It terrifies me because my lovely children,  who I get complimented on their lovely behaviour by strangers from, are growing into adulthood with people being taught that yelling and screaming is good, is necessary and is the best way to control others. I’m worried because these children indoctrinated with so much aggression are going to end up killing someone and I don’t want it to be my kid. And I don’t want it to be yours.

Please restore my faith in humanity.

Why My Life Won’t Be Made Into a Reality Television Series

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Me sitting in the car, waiting for group therapy

So I have come to the conclusion that my life might not be exactly glamorous enough to be made into a Reality Television series. I started suspecting this as I began thumb typing this entry up on the steps waiting for group therapy to begin and am now fully convinced of the fact as I now finish thumbing this up on the toilet… as I do a poo.

If my life was made into a TV show it’d view something like this:

One of the twins waking up crying at around 6 am. It’s the youngest one. Let’s not pretend I don’t know which one it is and that they both do it. The baby of the family does not love sleep. My husband looking at me sleepily says how exhausted he is and then me attempting to kick him the heck out of my bed because I’ve been up all night with one of the twins (yes, the baby of the family again) and I’m exhausted. No sexy lingerie,  not even the conflict of a swearing match because I’m to zombified to do much but grunt angrily and flail a foot at the husband’s tail.

Husband gets up, does not pick up crying twin (yes, John you’re the one who was crying) and sits on the toilet for an hour.

I manage to pry my eyes open and stumble out of bed, collect babies in arms, hear the toddler monkey calling for love, duck into her room, she jumps on my back and I carry all three children into the lounge room.

I change the twins’ nappies. The Monkey asks where Daddy is. I say the toilet. The Monkey tells me how much Daddy loves the toilet. I agree. I start day dreaming about going to the toilet on my own during the day. It is magical. Perhaps they could do one of those foggy transitions and then some beautiful rose coloured lighting as they focus on me sitting on the can. Ah, that hit the right spot.

I get the boys bottles ready (yep they’re 9 months and now bottle fed, I guess that could cause some controversy. People could come and have a breast in at my front door and I could douse them with cows milk or formula) whilst getting the Monkey a cup of milk at her desired temperature. She asks for cake for breakfast.  I say no.

The Husband gets off the loo and tells everyone about the quality of his poo and the effectiveness of his scissor bone.

I give the boys their bottle,  the Husband makes the Monkey some toast. They eat toast whilst the Monkey describes how the world works. If you get blue and gold paint and mix them then you get green paint but if you mix blue and gold glitter you just get blue and gold glitter mixed together. True.

One of the twins vomits all over himself,  his brother and me. His brother laughs. John you are lucky your brother has a good sense of humour. Ugh. I put dripping wet boys onto playmat, strip them of their vomit drenched wondersuits, then slowly make my dripping way to the laundry to dump my clothes in the laundry. The Monkey has at some point escaped from breakfast land and finds me and yells, “Mummy is nudie.” The husband wanders over and raises his eyebrows in a suggestive manner. A few weeks later when I complain he never tells me I’m pretty he will say, “What about the time in the laundry.” Yep, romance is going strong in our household.

Husband jumps in the shower. I swallow my bitterness and go off into a fantasy land where I get to have showers too. Bring on another transition and some funky lighting but this time using a shower model because me in the shower is so rare there is no file footage to use. I smell like a mouldy arse.

I hear what sounds like a flock of squarking seagulls coming from the lounge room. I enter the lounge room still naked, you’re welcome nosey neighbours, to discover that the Monkey has left her toast on the ground and the boys have fallen upon it. One twin has a whole piece in his mouth and the other is beating a slice against the ground to ensure it is dead before he eats it. What can I say, I have little cave babies.

Now I’d write more about my exciting day but it’s 11pm, I’m tired and I want to go to bed. I won’t sleep mind you, my stupid mind won’t stop talking to itself but you have to make an effort.

I will assure anyone who read the caption on my pic that group therapy is not interesting. It is not like it is depicted in Fight Club or Anger Management. Nobody has come home and slept nude with me, nor have they hugged me to their bitch tits, but I’ve already complained about the lack of pizzazz in group therapy – https://riedstrap.wordpress.com/2014/05/05/confessions-of-a-mad-mooer-ive-just-had-an-oprah-moment/ so I won’t rant about it again. It’s not the participants fault, there’s at least one other person there who I know would be just as keen to whip out a whole bag of crazy as much as I am. It’s the therapists really that keep us from reaching our full Hollywood potential.

But I digress. I shall rewrite my day suitable for a blockbuster movie next time I get a good length of time on the toilet… alone!

As always if you’re a lady and a bit crae crae you are welcome to join my group
https://facebook.com/groups/563402577109194

Now I must go wake my husband in order to tell him all about my poo girth, texture, buoyancy and colour, because that shit is important.