Sarah Nigbor

Most of the time, I think I’m a pretty good mother. At least, I try my hardest. I give it my all. But some days it feels as if I can do nothing right. This weekend was an entire weekend of that feeling. I was glad when the weekend was over, to be honest, because I finally lost my temper.

If you haven’t read my column before, you might not know that I have three stepsons (ages 16, 14 and 12) and one daughter, 11. We are one crazy, wacky, chaotic Brady Bunch, which includes a rabbit, a dog and a cat.

Kids test boundaries and I know I tested my share as a child. In fact, I don’t know how my mother didn’t put me out on the street. I wasn’t a bad kid, but I could be extremely annoying and persistent when I wanted something. I also have a mischievous streak, which tested her patience a time or 10. I loved a good argument and prided myself on my debating skills.

You know how parents always tell their kids that their kids will be 100 times more frustrating than them, as punishment for their bad behavior? I really think it’s true. I’m getting paid back four-fold.

After a week of relatively little or no sleep during Pierce County Fair Week, my body and mind have been begging for a break. But August is just too busy and breaks are not to be. I’m guessing that is why my patience has been running thin lately. Hubby is back to football coaching and teacher in-service, which means his presence on the homefront is non-existent. All our kids are now in the tween and teen stage, which means they’re extra pleasant, respectful and courteous at all times – or not.

Saturday morning all of us piled into the car (minus the 16-year-old) to bring the 14-year-old to work. Then we were planning to head to El Paso Days to see the horse pull. But not before all three yowled and fought like feral cats about who was going to sit where in the car. After 10 minutes of nonsense, people were in the car and buckled. Unbeknownst to me, I had forgotten my work keys as I tried to referee the fighting about seats. Hubby seems to become blind and deaf when these arguments occur and I am left to wrangle the wretches into submission. I call this selective hearing.

This was after a morning spent listening to the two boys fight incessantly about everything under the sun. They also try to settle their disputes by wrestling, but the 12-year-old always gets hurt (allegedly) and acts like the 14-year-old is the devil while he has a shining halo. His halo is tarnished, because he’s the chief instigator sometimes.

When we reached Ellsworth (we live east of Spring Valley), I realized I couldn’t get into my office to get my camera and my paycheck. My keys were sitting on the ledge outside my house where I’d placed them when I intervened in the fighting, because my middle stepson was throwing my daughter’s clothes all over the driveway in retaliation for her daring to sit in “his” spot.

Long story short, I had to drive home, back to Ellsworth, then back home again, then to Scheels in Eau Claire to buy my daughter new softball pants, when I had just bought her a new pair four days prior which she swore fit but were actually too short. I was seeing red, because what a waste of time and gas money.

The weekend just got progressively worse as kids’ bickering continued, no one listened to anything I said or argued with everything I said. I would never have dreamed of talking back to my grandparents the way my stepsons do, or I would have had a bar of soap in my mouth or a flyswatter stinging my behind. But those days are gone.

Being a stepmother is hard. You have no say in their activities and major life decisions, but you’re expected to be Mary Poppins with interminable patience and understanding even when you’re treated like a second-class citizen in your own house. It’s not always like this, and I love them very much, but some days are really hard. I’m not ashamed to admit it.

That delightful day was capped off by sitting in the emergency room with hubby for three hours late Saturday night for what we found out was bursitis in his shoulder. He is in terrible pain and there is nothing I can do help ease it, which is awful.

Sunday was more of the same but even worse. I’m not proud of it, but I finally lost it. Patience had left the building. Trying to use logic and kindness fled. My scary trucker voice bellowed forth and my words stopped them in their tracks. They looked like deer in headlights. The defiance, pettiness and smug looks faded as I let loose a tirade that would have made my grandmother blush (not swearing, but blunt honesty). It was not my finest moment, but everyone has a breaking point.

The old me would have never shared this with anyone. We all have to look perfect, like nothing ever goes wrong, right? Instagram perfect photos, nothing but sugar and spice and everything nice.

Well, sometimes life is more equivalent to an overflowing toilet that stinks to high heaven. Oh yeah, that happened too. How could I forget?

Tomorrow is a new day and I will do better. I love my family very much and I hope they will do better too. It’s okay to admit I’m not perfect. The important thing is I never stop trying.