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| "Bad parenting" is easily noticed at parks. (Watch for it.) |
Maybe it started because I was a young mom.
There's something about being nineteen and poor and unwed and pregnant that can give a girl a bit of a complex. As much as I didn't want to admit it, the idea of falling into the stereotypical representation of my demographic terrified me. And when I held little Intrepid in my arms for the first time - all 10lbs, 6oz of him - I had two main thoughts run through my head:
1. He's absolutely perfect.
2. Don't fuck this up, Maven.
And so I spent the next several years trying to prove something to everyone and anyone I thought might care: I am a good parent.
It started off pretty well. I was a shining example of a new mom. For example, despite his colic, I didn't shake him even once. Gold star for me. And when the internet exploded and special interest parenting pockets sprung up everywhere, I quickly identified with the "attachment parent" mentality: Breastfeeding? Co-sleeping? Baby-wearing? All the boxes were neatly checked off. Now I wasn't only a good parent, but a trendy good parent. Awesome sauce.
Unfortunately, things got a little more complicated as he got older. There was that whole "having a mind of his own" thing that cropped up more than once. No idea where that came from. He found this annoying little word - "NO!" - and started using it all the time, rather loudly, and particularly in busy restaurants or in line at the grocery store. And he decided he would do stuff that I always insisted in my childless years that my kid would never do because I would be a great mom. He would whack me in the face at Christmas dinner in front of a gasping family audience, and pull my hair on the bus, and kick other children at the book store...Fun times.
And then we got this ridiculous idea to "grow our family" and decided we should have two more of these little scream balls. The cycle continues.
I just don't understand why these kids think it's okay to think for themselves, like they're little people, or something. Don't they see that their desire to be independent makes me do things like raise my voice and say stupid things and do totally immature stuff like lock myself in the bedroom and scream into my pillow and write vent-y blog posts?
Why my kids couldn't just be the perfect little automatons is beyond me.
Anyway, by the time our third gremlin hatched, I had thrown in the towel and gave up on earning any type of parenting award. Obviously I had done something horribly wrong. From where I was sitting, other parents were doing a fantastic job. I would see a happy family going for a walk, or a child listening to mom or dad at the beach. It must be like this for them all the time, I decided. And therefore I was a complete and utter failure who should hang up her parenting apron - or whatever parents wear; maybe a puke guard or a goalie mask or whatever.
And then something really neat happened. One day, I ever-so-carefully lifted the delicate veil of denial I had been wearing and saw things for what they really are. And what I realized is, you're not any better at this parenting crap than I am. I don't know why I hadn't seen it before, but it was so obvious once I paid attention.
Nobody is that ideal parent.
Not a single one of you.
And that makes me feel damn good.
Last night I took Spawnling and Gutsy to the park to meet up with a friend. She's a seasoned pro like I am. We both have three boys under our belts and a whole lot of chaos running wildly through our homes. We have both used empty threats, such as "I'm leaving now, and there's no one else here! So if you're not coming with me you're going to be all alone. Ok, bye!"
You know those empty threats. You make them too.
Our goal last night was simple: Take the kids out just before bedtime and let them run wild. Parenting rule #22: Wear them out, hard.
The park was full of other children; a veritable cesspool of dirty knees and tangled hair and sweaty foreheads. My boys were running wildly, stopping only for brief sips of water before taking off again. They kicked their shoes off despite my objection, and, on more than one occasion, strayed well off the sand and pavement to explore rocky terrain and unidentified ground plants at the risk of injury and/or some kind of skin disease. Gutsy brought a toy gun. I had asked him not to and he had insisted, so I told him to leave it in the van. Half an hour in, I noticed him running in between bushes, pretending to fire it at bad guys with the younger, more impressionable kids in tow.
I wondered what the other parents would think.
And then I stopped wondering about 2.8 seconds later.
See, I remembered that I don't care anymore. I'm not out to prove anything to any of you at this point, other than I can manage to keep my gremlins breathing, fed, clothed and tremendously loved. It is my hope that I will raise them to be upstanding, incredible adults. But there's really no way to ensure that, and there's certainly no need to try and put on a show for any of you in the meantime.
My boys have no shoes on and could cut their feet open, and they're playing with pretend weapons. They're hot and moody and not listening to me terribly well. But guess what? You probably don't care all that much, because you're too busy dealing with your hot, moody child who isn't listening to you very well right now, either. And maybe has left his or her sandals under the swings next to my child's, and is chasing after him trying to get that gun.
And as my friend and I started mingling with other parents, we got on the topic of toy weapons and defiance and all those other things we said our kids would never do/play with/be like. There was a great deal of laughter. One mom was relieved to hear that it was not bad parenting that had suddenly turned her preschooler into a little demon, but the stage I lovingly refer to as "the fucking fours."
I walked away an hour later, corralling my kids into the minivan as one screamed and the other whined, and felt damn good about things. It seems experience in berating myself for my own would-be poor parenting is paying off through sharing the big secret to being a perfect parent: there are no perfect parents.
Moral of the story as you take your own kids to the park today: Don't be too hard on yourself. We're all in this together.