Venting. Just Real Quick

We left the five smallest monkeys home this last weekend. We left them with our friend's oldest daughter and her husband, who just got married in December. I knew this young couple would be great with my kids. I knew my kids would be safe and happy and fed and clean. I only called once or twice. That's how much I trust them.

I heard through the grapevine (from my big kids, mostly) how rotten the younger kiddos were while we were gone.

I know I have hard kids.

Here's the venting part: I just don't like hearing it from other people.

I envisioned motherhood all wrong: perfect kids, clean house, neighbors in and out. The reality is that kids mess up your house, neighbors only show up when it's messy, and . . . my kids are not perfect.

I have hard kids--most of them; I must issue that qualifier up front. (I refuse to name names or isolate the guilty, so you'll just have to guess who is easy and who is hard.)

I have hard kids--not hard in the disobedient, defiant, "I'm-doing-drugs" kind of way. They are high energy. They are noisy. They are high-spirited. And they push every boundary and every button all the time, just to see if you're really serious about consequences.

I have hard kids, and they are exceptionally smart--gifted, you might say. This may sound boastful, but only after you are required to parent gifted children do you realize what this package includes. And it's not all ACT scores and thank-you notes from loving teachers. You would think a houseful of bright kids would be every mother's dream right? It's hard. Truly gifted kids are rarely the first in their class. Why? Because there is no challenge to schoolwork  The challenge comes from being the first one done. The challenge comes from being the one that answers every question but won't write all those answers down on paper. The challenge comes at home when you find something else that interests you. Gifted kids are often the kids with behavior issues, with okay but not stellar grades, with their noses in a book or eyes out the window.

I have hard kids--kids that fit this rare exception: they (some of them) are better behaved for me than they are for anyone else. They know my rules and what to expect from their misbehavior. They know that I generally follow through with consequences, they know I can be tough, and they know not to push me too often. But, being the smart little buggers they are, they have to find that limit with everyone else they interact with--teachers, friends, babysitters, even people they just meet. Because of this trait, many of my kids have a hard time fitting in with others. People often won't take the time to figure them out or befriend them or see what's underneath the crazy behavior.

I have hard kids--and it's exhausting being their mom. I sometimes wish I had the kid that gets all straight A's (of which mine are all capable but few deliver). The kid that sits quietly and kindly listens without interrupting. The kid that everyone wants to be friends with. The kid that wins student body elections or is the teacher's pet.

I don't have those kids. But I have the kids that are clever. I have the kids that you can have an interesting conversation with, even when they're small. The kids that make jokes about Greek mythology or language rules or microbial development. The kids that read and read and read and read, and because they read and read and read and read, they know stuff--random, weird, interesting stuff. I have the kids that do things with passion--either love it or hate it. I once had a teacher tell me my child would change the world one day--he just had to pick the day.  Still waiting for that day to arrive . . .

I have the kids God chose to send me, because I could be their mother. And easy or hard, I love them. Fiercely love each of them, and their individual personalities and strengths and weaknesses. I love the excitement and commotion and energy and joy and humor and laughter and challenge they bring to life.

I wouldn't trade with anyone. Not even with the mom with the perfect angels all in a row who everyone else loves.

Because they're mine.  Just don't tell me how hard they are.  I already know. I don't care. They're worth it. Every second of it.

Linking my Vent up to V with Jenny Matlock.