You hate me.

I love the way my children constantly tell me that I hate them.

“Honey, you need to make your bed–”

“You hate me!”

“Sweetheart, please put your dishes in the sink–”

“You HATE me!”

“Darling, would you mind sharing your birthday cake with the guests?”


We don’t know what to do about it, it’s not like this parenting business comes naturally. I swear I never use the word hate in my own language (unless I’m talking about the autobahn, gas prices, the school lunch menu, or Lady Gag-Me-Now Gaga). We’ve continually rinsed mouths out with soap (or at least threatened to) and I try not to fall for the “I love you” lecture they all seem so insistent upon.

With the way kids talk around here you’d think we never praised them or fed them pizza.

June (4) is the worst at this. She’s prone to monologuing the moment something goes wrong or she gets corrected. “You hate me, my family hates me! You don’t want me, I’m stupid, stupid I say! You all hate me!! Sniff sob sniff sob…” It gets. So. Old.

I try not to give her a noticeable reaction and usually just casually remark that she’s as smart as she wants to be, or I start to subtly sing “Walk Tall You’re a Daughter of God” which she routinely falls for. The girl loves to sing, you should see her sing “Loathing” from Wicked. She is so my kid.

And right when I thought we had started to move through this I was trying to get Georgia (2) ready yesterday morning. When I wouldn’t put on the winter snow suit in 82 degree weather, what do you think she said? “You…HATE…me! I stupid!”

If it wasn’t so cute I would have washed her mouth out with soap. And yes, I snuggled her and told her how much I love her and that she’s wonderful. Man, it so pays to be the baby of the family. Here are her two-year-old photos my genius girlfriend Geneva took last month.