7 Things I Say to My Kids That Mean "I Love You"

In our family, I am the hammer.

I set rules, enforce expectations, and dole out reminders. So. Many. Reminders. My unrelenting exterior does not earn me mother of the year in the eyes of my charges. I'm not the parent to cave and tell you it's OK to skip homework, leave your bike out in the rain, or not feed the cat . . . because you juuuust doooon't feeeel like it. At a glance, I may not seem like the most nurturing parent. But I am. Every command and reminder I give to my kids is infused with love.

As proof, I've made a handy reference guide for my crazy, exhausting, but on the whole lovely children (who think I am way too full of directives). So, dearest cherubs, my hope is that one day, years from now, when I am the voice of reason or encouragement you seek out (on purpose!), you will understand what I really mean to say when I boss you around.

The bulk of our evenings are spent in frenetic chaos: bathing, cooking, dishes, homework, teeth brushing, and rushing past each other barking out directives from opposite ends of our house. At mealtime we sit together as a family; it is my lifeline to you. We discuss the "highs and lows" of our day.

It's the one guaranteed time you allow me to peek into your lives as an independent fourth grader and carefree preschooler and hear what you guys think about stuff. Sit down, because while you eat your mac 'n' cheese, I am slathering on family glue, sticking you to me so you'll come home in the Spring breaks and holidays of the future when you are living your own lives . . . full of better things to do.

One day you won't live here. I know this blows your mind, but one day you alone will be responsible for yourselves. With astronomical rent prices and the need for built-in social circles, you will likely have roommates. Anyone with roommates can tell you that those who leave the common areas a mess are everyone's least favorite. Being Least Favorite Roommate is no fun. Pick up your sh*t; you'll thank me later.

If you truly hated this, we'd skip it. (But your halfhearted resistance to my requests is as good as enthusiasm, so we trudge onward.) Your grandmother made your dad stick with piano and let's just say it wasn't a deterrent to him becoming my boyfriend (eww, yuck, I know . . . TMI). Guitar is portable and pianos are often present at social functions, so your bases will be covered later in life when music is needed to liven up a gathering, which is never a bad thing. Besides, music will nurture your soul — so, you're welcome.

OK, I'll let you in on a secret; you guys really do crack me up. Sometimes while you are making up new lyrics to "Baby Got Back," I'm fighting back laughter. When a plucky preschooler takes one look at dinner and proclaims, "Dammit, I hate peas!", it's near impossible to keep a straight face. BUT . . . I have to. So your teachers, coaches, and pretty much every other adult in your lives will know that deep down you are polite, respectful kids. You will learn as you age who you can push the boundaries with (and let the occasional fart joke surface), but until then, it is my motherly duty to tell you to keep. it. clean.

You were both cursed blessed with thick, voluminous locks. It is sometimes an act in futility to brush them, so you have given up. But we have to try. Why? Because some people (no doubt parents of kids with silky, straight, compliant tresses) will judge your cleanliness — and my parenting — by the neatness of your coif. When you are in college and shaggy, unkempt hair is "a look," you will both be rockin' it with gusto. But for now, so the world at large knows you shower, brush your hair! (Or let me do it.) Either way, it must be done.

No hidden meaning here. Just. Don't. Do. It. Ever. Ewww!

I make you read recipes, find measuring cups, and put away strainers. The kitchen is your friend. One day when I am not a permanent fixture in yours, you will need to make food so you can survive. It's true your father made it through college and young adulthood on cereal and canned soup, but I want more for you. (Hey, a mom can dream!)

The oldest of you can make a sandwich, quesadilla, toast, and a salad. Clearly, there is room for growth, but I'll take this as proof you won't starve. Youngest child, you already handle an electric mixer like a champ, so there is hope. In addition to providing nourishment, kitchens are the heartbeat of the home. Formative conversations, family bonding, gut-spilling, and good things happen there. Trust me.

These are cliff notes of a larger story, but it is testimony of my love for you. My fierce hope is that in the future (without me around), when it's you against the alarm clock, college finals, you first job, or being a decent, respectful housemate or partner to someone, you exceed expectations, that you pass with flying colors, that you kick ass at being a grown up.

I nag you because I love you more than words can say, and if you listen closely, that is what my words do say. All. Day. Long. Even though to you I sound like an adult in a Peanuts cartoon, one day you will understand — I am saying I love you.