parenting – Page 4 – Bad Parenting 101

Slumber-less Party

I have a handy little alarm mechanism: if I find myself desperately searching for a bathroom in my dreams, I can promptly rouse myself to take appropriate action. I am exceedingly grateful for this–as is the Spouse, undoubtedly.

Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for a variety of embarrassing sleep behaviors, this afternoon serving as a case in point.

I lurched into consciousness, suddenly aware that my jaw was stretched into a silent scream and a large bubble of spit ballooned from my gaping crevasse. Since the cup and napkin had magically disappeared from my tray table, there was no doubt that my Munch face had been witnessed.

The original Munch face, the day Sotheby's sold it for $120 million. Flight attendants got mine for free! Getty image from www.nj.com. — The original Munch face, the day Sotheby’s sold it for $120 million. Flight attendants got mine for free! Getty image from http://www.nj.com.

The circumstances of this last-minute flight to my childhood home are too recent and too raw to probe at the moment. Instead, I will tell you why I was so dang tired. I will divulge the wisdom I found at 3:28 last Sunday morning:

I am done hosting slumber parties.

The only caveat which might possibly allow for a future overnight posse of midgets would be a signed affidavit from the parent or guardian of each participant, asserting that the potential attendee would not, under any circumstances:

Yell or whine for prolonged periods of time as if the Disney Channel had come to life.
Pour copious amounts of the host’s toiletries into dozens of Kleenexes and toss the soggy blobs into the shower.
Dump three quarters of the contents of her plate onto the floor, survey the carnage, and proceed to stroll through it in her tights.
Break off a sofa leg.
Say things like, “you’re terrible at this game,” and “there’s no room for you in here,” to the birthday girl until she cries.
Interpret the words “no” and “stop” as encouragement to continue on course.
Have a complete meltdown over music selection and then hide in the attic.
Have three subsequent crying jags clothed only in underpants, making all the other guests fight to sleep in another room.
Yell “I JUST DON’T UNDERSTAND!” in host’s face as she attempts to soothe you.
Sneak downstairs and retrieve forbidden technology after bedtime, then keep a few guests awake all night with inappropriate garbage from the internet.
Lock herself in the bathroom in the middle of the night and proceed to pound relentlessly on the door while the host hunts frantically for a screwdriver.
Offer culinary critique such as, “I like waffles, but not when they taste like this.”

In the case of a breach of contract, the parent or guardian of the offending party would be fined an amount commensurate with an overnight sitter, lodging for two at a nearby resort, plus a couple of therapy sessions. Better yet, let’s collect the fee up front as a security deposit. Who knows, we might even return it if your child comports herself appropriately.

What’s missing at your house

*NOT MY HOUSE* from kiweescleaning.com — *NOT MY HOUSE*
from kiweescleaning.com

I noticed something at your place: a lot of things are missing.

Specifically, where do you keep:

*stuff that is broken and needs fixing?

*the item that is the wrong size, and must be exchanged?

*the sweater you just removed, but might need in five minutes?

*the glass/plate/spoon someone just used?

*that package that needs to get to UPS ASAP?

*the referral slip to take the kid to the orthodontist?

*the papers that need to be filled out and returned to school with your kid tomorrow?

*the empty bottle of Advil/detergent/deodorant/milk that is on the counter to remind you to buy more?

*your kid’s diorama project that is half-finished and due on Friday?

*the laundry that is clean and waiting to be folded?

*the dishes that are clean and sitting in the rack?

*the dish rack!

*the clothes that are waiting to go to the cleaners?

*the clothes that are too small for your kid, but might fit your friend’s kid–and you’re not sure when you’ll see them next?

*the items that someone left at your house last weekend?

*the gigantic art projects your kids bring home and want to display?

*the clothes that need a button/patch/hem job?

*the gift certificate that you have to remember to use before it expires?

*the library books that you meant to return yesterday?

Seriously, where do you put all of this stuff? The toaster? The coffee maker? Why is there nothing on your counter or in the hall or on the stairs? Why–when I open your coat closet to hang up my coat–does nothing attack me?

Why the %@$!! is baby crying? Coping with the gray area

My oldest brother built a tree house nestled in the power lines, about twenty-five feet off the ground. It had glass windows, plus who knows what other amenities; I never went up there to see. By the time I was old enough to climb trees, his fort wasn’t in the best of shape anymore. Also, I was kind of a chicken.

But I would gaze up at it, and wonder how in the world our mother could watch her boy shimmy up that tree with hands full of nails and saws and glass. There he was, teetering outside her authority, outside her ability to keep him safe.

“How did you know he would be OK?” I asked her once, long before having kids of my own.

She thought for a while before answering.

“Being a parent is hard,” she said finally.

This was my first glimpse into the gray area of parenting, but it was years before I figured out that most of parenting is spent meandering around in the unknown.

There is a game called “Why is Baby Crying?” which consists of a set of dice printed with phrases like “dirty diaper” “sleepy,” and “hungry.” I didn’t understand the premise at all–let alone the humor of it–until I was holding my own wailing newborn, wondering what in the world was wrong.

“Why is she crying?” I asked my mother, since I had tried everything I could think to soothe her. My mom had had four kids, after all, and we were alive and well. She must know something.

“I don’t know,” she said.

Now what?

Maybe the dice should have said “I don’t know” on every side, or offered suggestions that frazzled, sleep-deprived parents might neglect to try. You know, such as: “put baby down and take a deep breath,” or “have a glass of wine,” or, even better, “find a friend to watch the tiny tyrant for an hour.” There is no secret path around the gray area, just a few tools to clutch while you fumble through there.

Now that my kids are eight and ten, I’ve learned to tolerate some of the gray area with a little less anxiety. However, if I had the chance to sit someone down who KNEW ALL OF THE ANSWERS–someone like Dr. Spock was supposed to be–I would have a few questions.

Here are a few that have crossed my mind lately–feel free to add yours in the comments section.

*How do you know when to head to the emergency room, and when to say “walk it off?”

*How do you balance everyone’s needs so that your kids feel safe and loved, and you don’t lose your cool, identity, relationship, or mind?

*How do you quickly restore domestic harmony when your spouse gives your child three or four times the recommended dosage of Milk of Magnesia?

*What’s the nicest possible way to explain to your child that her favorite jacket and uncombed hair make her look like a homeless person?

*How do you guide your kids to make better decisions without them noticing and becoming resentful?

*What’s the best way to survive a child’s birthday party with a hangover?

*How do you keep your sense of humor when you get a flat tire, the brakes go out, the hot water heater spontaneously combusts, and you get a parking ticket all in the same weekend?

*How can you warn your kids about the dangers of the world without terrifying them or–worse–getting them excited to flirt with disaster?

And, last but not least:

*If child #1 has a fever of 104, has been crying and moaning for hours, but finally gets to sleep, and then her older sister leans over and vomits all over her bed, do you wake her up and change the sheets, or wait until morning?

Weekly Photo Challenge: Grand

I love, love, love shooting film. One has to slow down and contemplate the light, meter here and there, think in two dimensions, adjust the tripod. It is slow and meditative for me, in part because the equipment is so unwieldy, in part because the film so expensive. Each frame matters.

But this image was not shot on film. In fact, I’m lucky it exists at all.

Here’s the deal.

When I am with the spouse and kids, there is never a good time to take a photograph. I’ve missed many, many shots in the interest of “making good time,” catering to emergency bathroom and snack needs, or these days, trying to avoid the tween’s biting impatience.

My family will probably disagree–and for good reason. In truth, they have stopped and waited innumerable times for me to dig out my phone or a point-and-shoot. I take a ridiculous number of crappy snapshots on a daily basis, but the resulting images feel more like visual markers than like “real photographs.” Some are interesting, or serve to jog the memory, but most of them are jpeg trash. I save them anyway.

On the morning pictured, we were supposed to have hit the road an hour earlier. It had taken longer than expected to pack and leave our lodging, which was probably my fault. Two minutes into the drive, we had to stop and return Red Box movies. Five minutes later, we had to stop again to get gas and dig snacks out of a bag buried in the back. Finally, we were rolling. Everyone was a bit cross–and more than ready to get a few miles under the belt–when I saw the most amazing light coming over the lake and snow. I turned to my beleaguered family and smiled weakly. “So. I…uh…need to pull over for a sec.”

Sadly, I didn’t have my real camera along, but I grabbed the point and shoot and got out of the car. I slowed down for two minutes and really looked. I futzed a little with the framing and exposure. I walked closer, forgetting for a moment that there were three grumpy people back in the car.

It may not be the best possible photo, but it makes me very, very happy. In the midst of the manic, chaotic snarl of everyday finagling, it is possible to breathe and see and be in the present. And even if it’s just for two short minutes, it can be grand.

How my mom killed Santa

When I was little, I went to Prairie Market with my mother to do the month’s shopping. Prairie Market hawked groceries at a grossly reduced rate, leaving everything in shipping cartons in an unheated warehouse. Since it predated the days of ubiquitous scanners, we dug cans of soup out of the crates, and wrote the price on each one using a red wax pencil. I got to ride around on a platform hand truck instead of in a janky cart.

In a weird, frugal way, it was awesome.

On one fateful shopping trip, however, I looked up from my can-labeling extravaganza to see my mother sneaking Christmas candy into our pile of supplies. This might not seem like a big deal to you. Keep in mind that–except for a pack of Trident gum in the kitchen cupboard–we never had candy in the house. I came unhinged. I made a huge scene. Demanding to eat it then and there, I fussed and begged and whined until my beleaguered mother thrust a small, foil-wrapped Santa at me, allowing me one single bite.

She wrapped the chocolate back up neatly and paid for it with the rest of our haul.

Then…weeks later…

On a cold and jolly winter’s morning, I reached into my stocking and pulled out a half-eaten Santa.

What??!!

I immediately marched over to inform my siblings, two of whom offered feeble explanations; the last looked away, likely stifling a guffaw. What was this, I wondered? Could they not handle the truth? I squinted at them–perhaps with a bit of pity–not realizing the absurdity of the situation: a six-year-old unveiling life’s truth to a room full of teenagers.

*****

Cut to this year.

At around 10:30 pm on Christmas Eve, I was crouched on the floor beside the bed, reading my godforsaken, depressing book by headlamp, trying to stay awake without disturbing the spouse.

Must. Stay. Awake.

I know. That was pathetic, given the hour. It’s not like I had to make it through midnight mass or anything. But, after two weeks of insomnia and holiday hullabaloo, I was really ready to hit the hay.

Trouble was, one of my kids was on the couch in front of the stockings, holding some sort of vigil. Whenever I thought she must have dozed off, I would tiptoe to the top of the stairs and look down, only to witness her stirring, waiting, watching.

I was torn. Don’t my kids know who plays Santa, anyway? Wasn’t that the reason for her vigil, to have real proof beyond past year’s mistakes and discrepancies, such as:

How come this present is wrapped in paper we have in our office closet?

Why is my friend’s Santa so much more generous?

and

Why didn’t Santa bring what I really wanted: an iPhone?

If I just bailed and went to bed, I’d be fresh for the morning. I could stick some gifts in the stockings after sunup, right? It’s the same stash, either way.

Suddenly, I felt an overwhelming sense of empathy for my mother, the Santa-killer. I was by far the youngest of four kids. She had been willing herself awake for eighteen Christmas Eves so that some imaginary person could take the credit for all of her thoughtful work. That woman was done.

Sigh.

I’ve only been at it half as long. I can’t yet bail in good conscience.

Ho, *#^%(!), ho.

No longer a country girl

A Hogna Wolf Spider from www.commonswikimedia.org. — A Hogna Wolf Spider from http://www.commonswikimedia.org.

I used to pride myself on being part country/part city. Hey, I’ve handled mice AND muggers. That might have made me feel a wee bit superior now and then. I was once in front of my inner-city classroom, going over the daily schedule, when I noticed a half-dead mouse wriggling maniacally, stuck irretrievably on a glue trap in the front of the classroom. As I continued to talk my students, I walked to the closet, fished out a plastic bag, scooped the poor creature into it, sealed it, and handed it to some unsuspecting truant in the hall to “please dispose of in the bathroom.” My eight-year-old posse never suspected a thing. (If I have disturbed your pacifist nature, remember that a) rodent fecal matter in an elementary school is a serious health issue, and b) glue traps are the only legal means available from our school district. And what was I going to do? Scrape it off and rush it to the vet? Let it flail there indefinitely?)

Sadly, last year’s trip to the country convinced me that I am mostly just a run of the mill city girl/coward these days.

The first clue was after a very difficult bedtime. Not my bedtime. I would love to go to bed at a reasonable hour. The spouse was dog-tired, and had fallen asleep long before the girls. I tried semi-successfully to get them into bed. I read and gave kisses. Next thing I knew, one or the other was screaming, “there’s something on my leg!!” Lights back on, we would examine their beds inch by inch, inspecting the covers and the pj’s, inside and out. Eventually they would calm a little; I’d read another chapter aloud and turn out the lights. “I hear something!” the other would yell, just as I got back down the stairs. After three or four false alarms, I may have gotten a little cranky.

It was midnight when they finally gave up and went to sleep. Relieved, I fetched my book and sat on the couch, trying to relax enough to be able to sleep on the world’s least forgiving mattress. It’s the kind of bed that makes you want to punch the quality control guy at the factory. Imagine a concrete slab with a little less give. Top it off with an itchy, mildewed wool blanket, and a lumpy brick for a pillow. I love my parents, but how their marriage survived forty summers on this abomination, I have no idea.

Not that I wouldn’t want to read in bed, I just plain couldn’t. The bedside lamp could light up the neighboring forty acres, and a headlamp would be relentlessly dive-bombed by moths and mosquitoes. Couch it is.

I read a few chapters and was just starting to doze on the couch when I scratched my thigh. It was not the right shape. I scratched once more, and again encountered strangeness. I closed my fingers around a large something. I had a handful of something in my pajamas. Dropping my pajama pants, I saw that gigantic spider, and then it disappeared. That was way worse than having to crunch a large freaky thing. Was it still in my pajamas? Was it on the couch? Would it follow me to bed? I was no longer sleepy.

A couple of nights later, the spouse had already left for the city, and I tried to cozy myself on the concrete slab. I read the teensiest bit, and as my eyelids drooped, I turned off the light and slipped into a happy slumber. Wait. What was that? I was itchy again. After the pajama problem, I was a little skittish. On went the lights. Off with the pajamas. Nothing to be found. Now the bed felt impossible again. Everything itched.

I spent an hour or so reading on the couch, trying to calm down enough for sleep. This happened two more times. By now, it was 3 or 4 am, and I had had enough. I ripped off the covers, one by one, looking, looking. I inspected my pajamas repeatedly. I took the headlamp and gave the sheets the once over. I ran my hands over the moth-balled gingham sheet. Lumps. Lumps.

Under the bottom sheet were creatures. That is not supposed to happen.

I’d been sleeping on these sheets for three days already, but trapped under that bottom sheet were two crickets–one live, and one dead.

I know. They’re just crickets. They are charming outside, just like spiders are fascinating in their amazing webs outside. The bed is sacred, though. The bed is where one goes for a peaceful respite, not for the zoo.

I was being ridiculous.

But I couldn’t wait to get back to the city.

Firstborn

I was shell-shocked, sleepless,

mostly numb for three days straight.

On the fourth day, I was holding our tiny creation, mesmerized by her miniature, spastic gestures,

when I felt a sudden rush of sorrow and overwhelming futility.

Who am I to invite someone new into this crazy world?

Though fierce when provoked, I am so small, my shell hopelessly permeable.

What protection can I offer this perfect and vulnerable creature?

I wept for the confusion in store for her, for the first time she will be disappointed–perhaps by me–

And for the first time her heart will be broken.

Lovey

Tiny girl clutched her raggedy rabbit

in a very particular way:

one bunny ear tucked in her mouth, keeping her thumb company,

the other poked partway up her nose

in a warm and vaguely comforting way.

She teetered on the edges of the room,

saucer-eyed and silent,

watching chaos unfold.

Sleep-deprived snarls,

caustic blasts of incomprehensible rage and frustration,

and at last, a primal bleating

made her customary nighttime monsters seem benign and predictable.

Grown Up

I went to a party this weekend–the kind with save-the-dates and RSVP’s.

A twenty-four hour party, in a house full of favorite people.

We had long conversations,

and random, hilarious exchanges in the kitchen, doubling over and holding the counter for support.

As the light faded, a surf band materialized…

and a truckload of barbecue,

margaritas in mason jars,

ping pong, dancing,

and heat lamps on the giant patio.

Bliss.

Then, around 10 pm, I started thinking about that great book in my bag,

and the pile of pillows on my fuzzy blanket

and I wondered:

am I a little under the weather? Or just old?

****************

Special bonus! One of my favorite poems of all time:

Grown Up

Was it for this I uttered prayers,
And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs,
That now, domestic as a plate,
I should retire at half-past eight?

– Edna St. Vincent Millay

How Dead Norwegian Pets Reach the Afterlife

I got up at 5:20 today, and haven’t stopped since, so I would rather poke my eyes out with a hot stick than sit down and try to write something right now.

You might also be wishing that I never, ever pledged to post daily for thirty days straight; apologies in advance.

In the absence of any other coherent thought, I have decided to pass along a valuable piece of information that I received a couple of days ago.

I had mentioned a dead hamster in a post–“Hamsty”–who was well-photographed before we laid him to rest in a Hamsty-sized sleepsack, with a tiny pillow, in a tiny coffin.

It was tasteful and surprisingly moving for a rodent funeral.

I have recently been informed as to how real Vikings send their dead pets to Valhalla, however:

I’ll be better prepared when our next pet kicks the bucket.

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