My Kids Refuse to Listen to Warnings & I'm About to Lose My Sh*t

Laura Mazza - Mum on the Run/Facebook

Sometimes I honestly feel like telling my children to shut the f*ck up and LISTEN.

Like shut your tiny little mouths, and pay attention to me.  Now really, I’m the Bruce Buffer of commentating what I want these little vulva dumplings to do, I give them warning after warning, instruction after instruction, I start at 0, but do they listen? No. They do not. 

  • No one listens to me until I explode to 100, like anger from inside out.

    I hate that every day I have to turn into a hysterical Batman to get everyone to know I mean business. Because It doesn’t matter how many toys I pretend to throw in the bin, how many threats I make, the only time anyone listens is when I look like I’m dancing at a rave party, my face is red, eyes are bulging, and I’m screaming at the top of my lungs. 

    And I am f*cking sick of it. SICK. OF. IT.

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  • Back in my day, I received a look and I shut the f*ck up.

    I didn’t move. I probably peed myself a little. 

    My children? They take that look as, let’s do it again, but louder and let’s really let sh*t loose. You know, I used to be sweet and so softly spoken that people would always ask me to repeat myself, now, I don’t know how to talk to people anymore without yelling because I’ve convinced myself that people can’t hear me until I do.

    Today, a lady at the coffee shop asked me to leave on account of my aggressive behaviour because I asked her for two sugars with my latte.

  • My son asked me why I scream so much, and my answer was, “Well, the main reason is, you honey...”

    If there was a record for the words “stop!” “No!” and “now!” at 110 decibels, mothers would take top place. 

    If our little darlings just listened to us when we first told them to do something, there wouldn’t be so many of us with lost voices, prescriptions of anti-anxiety meds, and binned toys. We could all live harmoniously if warnings just worked and there was no need to count to F*CKING THREE.

    But for some strange reason, no one gets it, not even our partners, until we violently combust, then suddenly they hear us. 

    Rest assured though, I won’t tell them to shut the f*ck up. I’ll just sigh, roll my eyes, and WHISPER, shut the HELL UP.

    This post was written by Laura Mazza of Mum on the Run and reprinted with permission.