I’ve Made Life Too Comfortable For My Children

The little earthquakes aren’t the real problem; I suspect my parenting is

J.C. Anne Brown
Human Parts


Image: Pexels/Melike Benli

You’re spoiled. And you don’t have a clue.

That’s what I’m thinking, but, luckily, I’m able to summon the self-control to prevent myself from saying it. No, I decide to keep the insult inside my head where it belongs.

After all, I’ve helped raise her, so I’m ultimately to blame.

I pull up to the school entrance, put my car in park, and gaze at my 11-year-old daughter, who faces me just long enough for me to register the stink eye. She exits the car and slams the door behind her.

I do nothing.

Strike two.

It isn’t even 9 a.m. — I haven’t had so much as a drop of coffee yet — and I’ve already managed to commit two of parenting’s biggest faux pas: losing my cool and failing to say goodbye when angry.

I’m killing it over here.

The little earthquake that erupted at drop-off this morning can be traced back to the breakfast table where my daughter explained why her friend, Blake, couldn’t participate in last Friday’s school-sponsored pajama day.

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