Before John Rosemond, my four-year old son ran the house.
I never fully understood it, and being so close to the fire I could not even see it, but we were at the mercy of my son’s moods and desires. If our son didn’t want to sit in a restaurant,
I was outside playing with him in the parking lot until my husband finished his meal. I couldn’t speak on the phone even briefly because he would scream or constantly interrupt me.
The only way I could have a conversation or get work done in the office was to put him in front of the TV. And I felt guilty about that because the half hour Max and Ruby then turned
into a Dora the Explorer marathon.
Meals were endless struggles about what to make that he would eat. I became a short order cook. Getting him to leave a park took cajoling and threats. Our nights were sleepless, and when he woke up in the morning, no matter how early, the day began. Getting him dressed took an hour. Read more