It’s Hard Being Mean

I can't decide if this means I have done something very, very wrong, or very, very right. The reaction I am receiving is surely not an accurate barometer, as I have been , against my will, cast in the role of Wicked Mommy of the West. The weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth has to be (at least in part) pure melodrama.

A recent tradition in our family is to have pizza for dinner on Friday nights. Nothing spectacular about that except for my favorite part: the big girls (Lady Literary (11) and The Flower Child (allllmost 10) make the pizza from scratch. I'd love to tell you that I do something meaningful or especially redeeming with my time that is freed up by not making dinner, but I can't without stretching some truth.

Last night, the girls were sent inside ahead of the rest of the family to start the pizza, while the rest of us stayed out finishing yard work. The rule having always been, "If you have trouble, come get Mom", and since I heard nothing from them, I was fully expecting to come inside and praise the ladies for their hard work, increasing skills, etc.

But...the ladies had, instead of making pizza, been...(insert gasping, sucking-in-of-air-in-shock-and-dismay sound here)...reading books. Disappointed (but not surprised), I sent them to Pj's and showers while I threw the pizza together and Mr. Visionary laid down the law that the girls were "off books" for a week. Gulp.

My inner debate is between knowing it is great that they love to read books so much, and knowing that they still need to obey in a timely manner. My inner chidings stem from knowing that "someone" bought the six full-size bookshelves in our family room and stocked them with books , and that "someone" (who loves to play in the dirt) stayed outside way too late because it was more fun than coming in and keeping us on schedule.

So we'll be returning to Self-Control 101 for some remedial work.

Especially the Mommy.