My beautiful, sweet mom asked me toward the end of a recent evening if I was in a bad mood. I said no and asked why she would think such a thing. Apparently I was short with the kids.
Pshaw.
What some would consider short, I consider the thin line between the world's smallest semblance of order and utter hurricane-force chaos. I think of myself as less the irate, harried, nearly-psychotic mother I seem on the outside and more as a cool capable drill sergeant toughening up these little pansies to become better, stronger versions of themselves.
In fact, I've come to appreciate what I call the Captain Von Trapp style of parenting. I think it's absolutely ridiculous to have let that hippie Maria woman come in and turn such a orderly household completely upside-down with her laughing and singing nonsense.
Obviously, I would never allow such a thing to happen with my charges. No singing. No laughing. No playing of any kind. ORDER! I MUST HAVE ORDER AT ALL TIMES!
Now, where did I put that whistle?
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