Or how simple parenting acts can drive you insane (2/3)
I finally picked up my daughter and took her to her room while being kicked and punched. I soothed her and tried to calm her down before starting again. On the outside, I look calm, but I'm feeling frustrated on the side. I'm feeling frustrated at how complicated this routine has become.
Some people are out there cleaning the ocean of plastic pollution, some warn us about the effects of social media on mental health, and some are reporting on the impending doom of Zuckerberg and Musk's cage fight.
And I'm in my daughter's room, losing my mind with a pink Disney brush in one hand and a bottle of rosemary-scented detangling spray in the other.
I manage to get her out the door just in time to get to school late again.
After drop-off, my wife called me to have our now-recurring "what the was that?" call of the day.
My wife and I agreed; we can't keep going like this, and we settled on the strategy for the following day: she does not leave her room until her hair is brushed.
The morning arrived, and we braced ourselves for a very intense (but short) protest. There is no way my daughter would say no to brushing her hair when it is the only thing standing in the way of her paleo blueberry waffles with cashew butter and raspberry chia jam.
I didn't anticipate my daughter having as much will as she does. She didn't care about breakfast if it meant torture, and torture, of course, is me brushing her hair very tenderly. But that's not the way she sees it.
Or how simple parenting acts can drive you insane (1/3)
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