The Dishes, the Drama, and the Floor Dive That Saved the Day
Let me set the scene:
I’m a chronic-illness, ADHD, bipolar, recently-hip-replaced mom trying to hold the household together with duct tape and sarcasm. My teen? Smart. Strong-willed. And currently convinced I’m the villain in her origin story.
And today? Today was The Dishes Incident™.
✋ Scene One: A Chore of Her Own Choosing
We don’t assign chores like a dictatorship around here. I made a list. She chose “dishes.” It was her idea.
Ten bucks a week. Seemed simple. No tricks, no traps. Just a job she picked herself.
Last night, after hours of computer time, I said: “It’s time.”
She said: “I’m tired.”
I said: “Fine. Tomorrow morning, before school.”
She said: “Okay.”
Agreement made. Terms accepted. Treaty signed.
⏰ Scene Two: The Deal Breaker
She woke up on her own at 5 AM — a miracle I did not question. Then she asked:
“Can I do them when I get home?”
Cue my calm-but-firm voice: “No. That’s not the deal.”
The deal. Her deal.
Enter: rage. Defiance. And the words that burn like fire even when you know they’re just teen flailing:
“I hate you! I want to go live with Grandma!”
Classic. Not the first time I have heard it and it wont be the last I’m sure but it guts me every time.
🐈 Scene Three: The Cat, the Crisis, and the Floor
Then I saw her on the living room camera… getting way too close to one of the cats. And a pit hit my stomach:
Was she looking for something to hurt because she was hurting?
I ran. Too fast. My hip screamed.
I told her: “If you need to hurt someone, hurt me. I’m the one you’re mad at.”
Then her dad got up.
And I — knowing better — told him what she said.
Cue: screaming. Yelling. Not listening. To me, nor each other.
So I did the only thing I could think of. I threw myself on the floor.
Literally. Like a one-woman protest movement.
It worked. Not proud of it. But it worked.
Because when words don’t reach them, drama sometimes does.
🫱 Scene Four: The Olive Branch (and the Laundry)
Later, I offered her a new deal.
The laundry. Every day. Not as punishment — as partnership.
Her dad won’t have to haul baskets up and down stairs.
I still can’t do them after surgery.
It’s a chance for her to contribute and feel capable again.
But just so we’re clear:
If she cooks it, she cleans it.
I may be flexible, but I’m not a doormat.
💬 What I’m Learning (Even When It Hurts)
Holding boundaries hurts sometimes.
Offering grace doesn’t always feel graceful.
Being the “mean mom” isn’t about being cruel — it’s about being consistent.
She sees me as mean today. We’ll see how she is when she gets home. We havent had a blow up like that in a while, sometimes she comes home apologetic, sometimes she doubles down.
Maybe one day she’ll see it for what it was: love that didn’t flinch, even when it limped.
Til next time gang, take care of yourselves, and each other!
WannaBeNormal 