Crackle, crackle, crunch crunch.
Hear that? Those are the eggshells scattered all over our floor these days.
Last night BrightSide and I had one of those blinding revelation moments, one that frankly wasn’t all that pretty.
Somehow, some way, we’d managed to slip into complacency. Despite our focus on conscious parenting…working to be fully present and engaged with our kids…somehow we found ourselves stunned into silence as we realized the situation had spun completely out of control.
When did we start shying away from shutting kids down?
The sass, the sass. Lawd almighty, the sass up in this place has enough attitude in it to launch a hot air balloon. I know we used to crack down on this mess, but somewhere along the way the whole it’s a stage thing covered too much ground. We started letting a few too many things slide until a bit of sass became a dose of sass which turned into a landslide of sass.
Which is way too much for me.
For whatever reason, I’d started tiptoeing around my teen, cutting him slack for stuff that never would have been acceptable a year ago. But last night’s scene was a big, fat wake up call, one that scattered the fog clouding my mind. Suddenly, in the midst of the surreal, things became crystal clear.
Yes, my son’s adopted. He’s struggled. He’s gone through some pretty rough patches.
But that doesn’t mean he’s allowed to be an a**hole.
It’s a delicate balance, this factoring in life issues with life stages, but I have to learn to separate the two. Because treating him with kid gloves simply because he’s adopted would be just as wrong as ignoring that fact altogether.