4 kids in 3 years: reflections on motherhood, art and life.
I don’t like eight-year-old boys.You might remember that I didn’t like seven-year-old boys much either.
It’s hard to describe what the actual thing is that he does that drives me so bonkers. He teases his sister. He says mean things during time out. When his brother is playing with his toys, he punches him in the solar plexus and laughs a little. He whines to play Monopoly or baseball in the yard, but even when I comply (and I pretty much hate baseball only slightly less than I hate Monopoly), he is still a jerk. (From I Don’t Like Eight-Year-Old Boys at Scary Mommy)
So if you have an eight-year-old boy or know an eight-year-old boy (and who doesn’t know an eight-year-old boy?) then please head on over to Scary Mommy and check out the whole post.
Comment there. Or share it on Facebook. It’ll make you feel good. And it might make your friends feel good. It’ll certainly make me feel good anyway. And at this point in a very looooong summer with an eight-year-old boy (plus two sixes and a five), feeling good is a good thing. For you and for me.
I love it that I saw this in my Facebook feed the other day and had no idea that it was you. I love that this feels both like a Scary Mommy post AND a Jen Groeber post. And mostly I’m loving that idea you got from NPR about being cradled all day and having every need met, but for feral moms instead of feral teens. Because I am one.
How awesome is your comment? Seriously.
I can’t get over the fact that you saw the post without realizing it was mine at first. That reminds me of earlier this summer when I opened up my Brain, Child feed and did the same thing… to you!
And I think we might all be feral moms looking for lub in all the wrong playgrounds. 😉
Congrats, Jen. Now at Scary Mommy. Well done! I’ll pop over.
Yay! Thanks so much, Amy. Wherever you are, it’s always a party.
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Reading this email saved my bacon tonight. I thought I was the only one with a kid like this, that I’d been doing it all wrong, that I was doing things that can’t be undone. Imagine my relief to find out I am nothing but normal, as usual, and so is my (occasionally amazing, occasionally maddening) kid. Thanks.