CAN'T WE ALL JUST GET ALONG?????

Another peaceful afternoon spoiled by my son. If that sounds harsh to you, a mother bemoaning the presence of her very own flesh and blood, well then... come back tomorrow.

How am I supposed to spin it? Make it more P.C.? My tired, hungry son returns from an afternoon play date seeking solace in his mother's heart and a bowl of Special K. Is that better? Whatever! All that may be true but within moments of his entering the peaceful space my daughter and I shared, I was on the receiving end of shrill screams, name-calling, flying objects and fake-out karate kicks. The idea of trying to ease his pain never comes to mind as I attempt to avoid my own serious injury.

Of course, I love my son. He's not always a demon child. In fact, in the past when sharing this behavior with his teachers, they all give me the same look of disbelief. He is a kid who NEVER gets in trouble at school, does well in all his subjects, and is generally respectful, sweet, and VERY amusing. But with me, with dear old mom, after school, he transforms into something altogether different. It's as if he's worked so hard all day to hold it together that when he gets home he erupts. All his pent-up frustrations, embarrassments, and missed goal kicks, come spewing out like an invisible, noxious gas.

Almost immediately, the evening becomes a scream-fest between me, my son and our dog. (I believe if my big, black lab could talk instead of bark VERY loud, she'd speak the famous words of Rodney King - hence today's title.) I slap together cook dinner while my son is upstairs screaming his head off calming down. The glass of red wine I've poured is spoiled but I continue to drink it, too spent to open another bottle.

I call my son down and he asks for a yogurt and some cereal. Within minutes he has shed his ogre costume and the figure of my adorable, approval-seeking boy has returned in it's place. He is fine. Fed. Satiated. I, on the other hand, am a basket-case. A heart palpitating, deep breathing, bundle of frazzled nerves.

He fills his glass of water and says in a casual, humorous tone, "It would be so cool if you were a robot mom. Then you'd have to do everything I told you."

I put down my almost empty glass of sour wine and wonder, "Why didn't I think of that?"





P.S. The picture is not of my son.