Sometimes parenting hell is worth it

We had a fun filled weekend planned.  Fun activities, Santa, the whole deal.  The kids however, had decided otherwise it seemed.  Instead of bouncy castles and the such, we got full fledged parenting hell.

First off, one of the boys decided that he didn’t want to do anything. Nothing at all.  Every request to participate in an activity, whether it was getting dressed or hockey was met with a no so fierce I almost expected father Karras to knock at the door.  The oldest, whether it was in solidarity to his brother or just plain rebellion, decided to do the exact opposite of anything we asked, all the while singing an annoying song over and over and over.  The youngest, usually my sunny princess, apparently decided to catch up on all the terrible two-ing she missed.

It was one of the rare weekends where the BF and I both kind of look forward to them going back to their mom’s, essentially, they were jerks.  Our patience was nearing its limit.

Sunday afternoon came, and it was time to go to my office’s children’s Christmas party, and we seriously considered not going.  Did we really want to show this side of our family to my colleagues?  In the end we decided to use the party as a last ditch effort to salvage some semblance of family fun this weekend.  So we bundled the grumpy kids (and adults) and went.  At first they were shy, reserved, and not talking to anyone, but the girl in charge of the event was great, and soon the kids were having fun.

Santa came and there were presents, they played, we rested.  Then the girl in charge brought out a parachute.  Almost all of us adults looked at eachother with knowing smiles, remembering the sheer joy we had felt when we were kids and someone brought out the parachute in gym class.

There were not enough children for all of the parachute handles, so the BF volunteered.  They were playing a game where one person is on top of the parachute, and one under.  Everyone else shakes and moves the parachute making it difficult for the person on top to see the person under.  The person under tries to avoid capture.  After my BF had had his turn under the parachute, and was to be on top, the organizer suggested that since I was so good at heckling/teasing my BF, I should take a turn under the parachute.  I, being a participator by nature, took off my shoes and got under the parachute. 

Our oldest, the one who had held out hope for so long, as all children of divorce do, that his parents would get back together, the one with whom we’ve had the most trouble, loudly and proudly exclaimed « Those are my parents playing, those are MY parents! ».  It was the first time he had ever referred to me, in public or private, as a parent, or as anything other than his dad’s girlfriend.  Then the youngest begged to replace her dad as the person trying to catch me, he conceded.  The middle boy, the one who had spent the weekend grumping and growling cheated and helped his sister catch me.  All the kids were laughing as I got up, brushing off my pants.  Then I looked up at the BF, and we smiled at each other while thinking the same thing, we are a family, and it was all worth it. 

It was one of those spontaneous moments where you know right down to your core that you are in the right place, at the right time, and doing the right things.  No matter how hard it is.