FORCES OF NURTURE: Mouth of babe wounds ‘grouch’

LITTLE ROCK — Who’s the “grouch” in your house?

I’m convinced now that most homes with small children have one. This occurred to me one morning when Sophie called me “Mommy the Grouch.”

I know she didn’t mean to hurt my feelings. Four-yearolds never do. But hurt, they were.

I don’t know about you, but there are times of the day and parts of the family schedule when I’m less patient. More inclined to lash out.

For me, weekday mornings bring out my crabby side.

You see, I wake up early most workdays so that I can go to the gym to exercise before the children and husband wake. Makes me feel less guilty because I’m not missing out on more of their waking hours. As it is, they see their day-care teachers more than me during the week.

But when I get home from the gym, my husband and at least one child are awake. Sesame Street is blaring from the TV. The scent of breakfast and coffee fill the air.

And it’s nice. I love it, really. But I’m still in a hurry. I have to get myself and two children fed, dressed and out the door. That’s my focus.

I reserve little attention for the extras. In our house, that means I don’t have much patience for discussions of Dora the Explorer plotlines or indepth analysis of waffles and whether they’re better with syrup or jelly.

I’m in a hurry. And I’m usually late.

I don’t have much tolerance for my sweet little girl when she walks into my bathroom for the fourth time in a morning to ask me, “Mama. What’s mascara?”

Ahh! What is mascara? I don’t really know, and I’m certain I don’t have time to explain it, if I did.

I’m snappish. Not proud of that.

And on this recent morning, I was struggling. I wasn’t very nice.

“Go Sophie. Go back to the den. Watch Sesame Street. Mama’s busy.”

And then I heard her. “Come on Daddy. Let’s get away from Mommy the Grouch!”

Bam! Right in the gut. Ouch.

I’m “Mommy the Grouch.” How did that happen?

I wanted to be the cool, fun-loving parent. Not the one who might live in a trash can with a worm friend named Slimey.

My husband talked to Sophie about how her words weren’t kind. She told me she was sorry.

But still. Ouch.

I’m Mommy the Grouch.

Cindy Murphy is a news reporter for the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette. She and her husband live in Little Rock with their 4-year-old daughter and 1-year-old son. She and Cathy Frye are co-editors of LittleRock Mamas.com. E-mail her at

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