Tag Archives: parenting

My new philosophy

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In order to connect with my inner child and to empathize with my son, I will behave like a three year old for the next month or so.

From now on, when frustrated, I’m going to scream at the top of my lungs and throw things. The volume and number of items thrown will be inversely proportional to the adult-perceived importance of the incident. If my shoes won’t work I’ll shriek and fling them. If my toys won’t work I’ll scream and throw everything within my grasp, hoping to break something. If the car won’t work when I’m late for something important, I’ll whine a bit but get over it quickly.

This month, if I see something really disgusting in the gutter, I’ll pick it up. And if it seems particularly dirty, I’ll try to put it in my mouth.

From here on out, if someone looks at me sideways, I will hit them.

Food will be used primarily for wiping on my shirt and on my parents.

For as long as I can, I will whine for other people to do everything for me. If someone won’t blow my nose within 0.2 seconds of my asking, I will scream until the snot comes out through my ears.

As much as possible, I will wait until something important is happening, either in a conversation, at a gathering, or at home, and will shriek “Listen to me!!” even if people already are.

I will choose 6am as the time for ringing my scooter bell incessantly.

If someone suggests I bathe, wash my hands, or brush my teeth, I will throw myself, writhing, to the floor. If they try to help me, I will scream until their eardrums rupture. If they don’t help me when I can’t do it, I will scream until their eardrums rupture. If they suggest that basic hygiene is necessary for inclusion in American society, I will kick them.

If anyone threatens my desire to have brownies for every meal, I will kick them, too.

Whenever someone else looks away, I will make a beeline for the last thing they forbade me to do, and I will touch it. A lot. And probably lick it. Because I can.

For the length of this social experiment, if anyone states that I may not wear my jammies every day until the end of time, I will writhe and flail about impotently as I whine that I don’t want to wear clothes. Ever.

If anyone dares use the telephone or computer while I am awake, I will break either their technology, their favorite knickknack, or their eardrums.

I will wear a jacket and rain boots when it is 90 degrees. If things cool off to, say, 50 degrees, I will don shorts and flip flops.

All of these behaviors are subject to change if anyone, and I mean anyone, figures them out. At that point, I reserve the right to do whatever obstructionist, violent, vocal, or illogical behavior necessary to get people out of my way. Unless I need them. Then I will use whatever technique necessary to get them to do my bidding.

Roller coaster ride

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Know what I don’t like about parenting? That even the awesome stuff lasts about 12.5 seconds before it pivots violently and bashes you in the nose.

Know what I like about revisiting Infinite Jest this summer? The AA aphorisms about one day at a time and one minute at a time and that it’s okay to want and that any moment no matter how unbearable, is really only one moment and is, actually, bearable.

Is there a 12-step program for parenting? Other than getting a nanny or day care sitch or stun gun?

What the h-e-double-hockey-sticks?

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I don’t understand it. I’ve been missing dozens of things lately, and I got them ALL today.

My dream day involves sleeping late, reading a book, practicing yoga, having a fabulous home cooked breakfast, going for a walk on a glorious day in the greater S.F. Bay Area, talking with friendly humans (young and old), eating a fabulous home cooked lunch, more reading, napping, more reading, another venture out of doors, a delightful dinner prepared by someone else, and a chance to put my feet up and write.

I got every single one of those things. No sitter, no bribes, no compromising major philosophies, no yelling, no wanting to knock myself into a coma just to get a break.

Plus, I got the part I never, never fantasized about but will now, every time: awaking from a nap with a small, perfect creature next to me, who then, upon waking and seeing me reading, thinks books are a good idea and (get this) reads to himself while I finish a chapter in my own enjoyable book.

Are you serious? Infinite summer, indeed.

*Oh, yeah, it was hotter than crap today and I felt sick most of the day and I feel badly that I didn’t clean or make the world a better place, but you wouldn’t know it from my already rosy memory of the day.

Thank dog for small favors

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Dear Universe,

Thank you, thank you for making fruit that does not need to be peeled or cut.  Washed, sure, mostly. Thank you for berries and grapes; they make my life so much easier I might actually cry. (All you chocking-hazard types can just get bent because I’m having a freaking moment here, and I sit with him when he eats, and I haven’t cut grapes since he was a year, and I’m bending over backwards here not letting him cry and respecting him so if I want to endanger his life a little it’s my business since I’m the one whose given up almost everything I know as happy and good in the world to give him things that are happy and good so just back the hell up and choose another blog to safetyvangelize.)

Thank you, Universe, for screwcap wine being okay now instead of all box winey.

Thank you Universe for my son’s perspective. On our hike I saw a deer and three wild turkey (not the former because of the latter, though that might be a good story, too) and he showed me a hawk, about 20 feet across a gorge, in a tree. I see stuff that’s moving and blow past things that are still. He sees everything. I’ve never before seen a hawk sitting still, watching.

Thank you, capitalism, for making pipe cleaners so cheap. Seriously. That’s like an hour of free thinking time while we quietly make fake flowers together for the house’s many vases. (Cat bastards make sure no real plant goes unmolested. For those keeping score, cats are more trouble than a fetus; newborns and infants and toddlers are more trouble than cats. Now cats are back on top, causing way more headaches than a three-year-old, even one without child care or preschool or any time away from me god help me don’t know how to make it through tomorrow or the next day.)

Thank you, Universe, for hummus. I would thank you more for avocado if my kid would eat it, because it’s an even more complete meal than hummus. But, we play the hand we’re dealt, and I appreciate hummus.

Thank you, youtube. Just for being you. Except all the creepy parts. I don’t appreciate having to prescreen searches to make sure some Plushy doesn’t pop up when I search for aardwark vids. But, still.

Thank you, England, for losing. We totally dig our fireworks. And the kazoo parade at the Russian River. I’m a total Yankee Doodle Dandy, macaroni and all. Seriously, how would we make it from Memorial Day to Labor Day without an excuse for outdoor cooking and excessive desserts? Thanks, British Empire. Most of the other colonies got totally scrod, but we did okay.

And thank you, Spouse, for the help yesterday. Your willingness to move the dust mop AND the whole pile of dirt about four feet out of the way when shrieks from our child interrupted my progress really helped. I was able to pick up my mopping again the next day, almost as if nothing had happened. You’re a peach.

And thank you Universe, for continuing to throw a freaking bone to the family you keep tossing about like a plaything. Thank goodness the illnesses (times thrity-two, by now, I think) and the car accident and the spitballs of bullshit you keep hurling at them just miss. There, CB. I’m grateful for you.

Consider this

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Item one: Peanut walked at least 3 miles and ran on half mile of today’s 4.5 mile hike in my favorite of all places to find early blackberries, Tilden Regional Park.

Item two: I had counted on a two hour workout with 35 lbs in a backpack but settled for a glorious four hour blackberry and poison oak extravaganza.

Item three: Peanut took a full hour to eat his pudding (yes, it’s Tuesday!) and PB&LC before acquiescing to nap.  I almost clawed my own eyes out.

Item four: But I didn’t. I read Infinite Jest instead.

Item five: Spouse came home early for Tennis Tuesday and we all ate crackers and hummus in between sets. And by sets I mean whenever Peanut decided he was done playing hockey with my old tennis racquet and the pink tennis ball he picked out. I’ve been playing tennis since I could walk. And I think I found out today that I’m really a lefty.

Item six: We walked the half block home and played one round of Candyland. Ask The Kitchen Witch how I feel about Candyland.

Item seven: Peanut and Spouse screamed at each other through another bath. And teeth. And new mouthwash because, my  god, that kid’s breath stinks for someone who brushes twice a day. Damn.

Item eight: After his timeout for kicking Daddy, Peanut and I had a lovely talk and two books.

Item nine: Peanut then screamed and cried for an extra song after stories and songs.

I need an item ten. Because today is all ping-pongy between phenomenal and crappy. And though the day was great overall, I’m left on a slight aftertaste of crappy. So I’m breaking all this week’s rules about refined sugar and dairy and wine and such (long story, different post, fourteen alien pounds dragging me down as though they need to be the straw that f—ing poked the camel in the eye then laughed as it tried to cry but couldn’t because it lives in a desert and even a camel’s body knows not to waste tears on something so stupid, but mine doesn’t) to have a South African shiraz and some mediocre soy ice crap with coffee and chocolate in it. And pizza. And some pistachios  I just found. And maybe some heirloom tomatoes with balsamic and olive oil and grey salt. For fiber.

on that note…

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This week’s Peanutisms:

“Mommy. Don’t EVER give me plain goat cheese again. I only want my cheese without herbs.”

“I want something really new that we haven’t had in long time.”

“Mommy, Daddy. ‘P’ peanut. ‘P’ pee. ‘P’ punkin. ‘P’ pree. ‘P’ I don’t want to do this game anymore.”

“I just don’t want one baby. They’re too little.”

“Mommy, you picked me so many blackberries that I need to go poop.”

Blue, cloudless sky

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You wanna know how lucky I am? (Since I mostly post snark about loathing parenthood despite loving my kid, i figure today is the perfect reason to tell you why I totally lucked out, in spite of the whole “not  cut out for this job and seriously considering running away from home” technicality.)

In Trader Joe’s, which, in addition to tasty, affordable loveliness, offers kids stickers and balloons, and P was in fine form. “May I have a bar?” Nope. Already had one today. “Okay……May I have some juice?” Nope. Yesterday was juice day and you had lemonade at the party. “Yeah. That was good lemonade.”

He helps the checker by handing over groceries. She gives him stickers. “May I have one balloon?” Sure. We ask. They’re out of helium.

“Oh, bug, I’m sorry. They’re out of helium, the special air that makes the balloons.” Breath held, calm distractions planned, explanations of world and its unfairness and yet relative goodness calculated.

“Well. Stickers are nice.” Proceeds to decorate his shirt and mine with stickers.

Seriously, does it get any better than a three year old who can shake off balloonlessness?

Seven years, almost

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Overheard in L.A.

Peanut: I love you, friend.
Friend: [whispering] I love you, too.
Peanut: [louder] I said, I love you!
Friend: I said, I love you, too!
Peanut: I didn’t hear you.
Friend: [louder] I said, I love you, too!
Peanut: Oh. I didn’t hear you.
Friend: [shouting] I said, I love you, too!

Lucy and Ethyl, ladies and gentlemen, at ages three and three and a half.

The Loh Down on Divorce

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Sandra Tsing Loh, whose writing I admire and whose voice is all too often in my car, is ending her marriage of 20 years. And she has some intensely interesting things to say about women, marriage, and American culture.

Check out her intriguing article over at The Atlantic.

Made me thing of Orenstein’s book Flux, and of several conversations I’ve had lately with friends about limited hours in the day and priorities. Consider, for instance, her argument that “To a certain extent, men today may have more clarity about what it takes to raise children in the modern age. They don’t, for instance, have today’s working mother’s ambivalence and emotional stickiness.”

I don’t wanna

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I’d love to write an erudite post about how the online community is reading Infinite Jest this summer, and how I welcome their inertia so I can undertake Read Number Two. http://infinitesummer.org/archives/215

But I’m just wiped out.

I’d like to enjoy my trip with family to do one thousand things with old friends  while Spouse attends to business. But I’m just too tired.

I’d love to be witty and silly and roll my eyes about how hard parenting is. But I just can’t find the energy right now.

Geez.  I’m not able to be a poser, an activity director, or a snarky whiner? That must be some serious exhaustion. Borne of only three nights of pint-sized knees in my back, A/C wars with Spouse, and running around from place to place trying not to keep the Tazmanian Devil in a hotel room for more than 30 minutes at a time.

and we’re here for another two days…

Bright side Dark side

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Peanut is a great traveller. Loves new sights, sounds, places. Sits patiently in the car for long rides, behaves well in public, carries his own luggage.

But oh, the nights. He wouldn’t eat until we  got ready for bed (new things kill his appetite and he didn’t eat all day and said he was hungry at 8pm Gee, you think?) and then threw a two hour tantrum last night and, as a result, went to bed three hours late. He woke and threw a meltdown fit at 2am. Yelled and cried for about 15 minutes that he never got his stories. He woke screamingly angry at 4am and revved up for a long fit about needing to brush his teeth (but Spouse caved a few minutes in because we’re in a hotel and it was 4 am and Spouse has low tolerance for early morning tantrums. Pussy. I’ll be paying for that choice for weeks, but oh well. That’s the luxury of the weekend parent. Not that I’m bitter.)

So, of course, Peanut work promptly at his usual time. 5:00. He’s had approximately five hours sleep. He’s trapped in a hotel room with a mother who has had approximately five hours sleep. He’s mad he couldn’t go with Spouse on his little jaunt of peace and quiet this morning. Apparently most of this anger is directed at the pricier items installed in this hotel room for people with taste, rather than children.

And I am faced with a day of fun, with people we love, and highlights of my favorite LA outings and the potential of either  Dr. Jekyl Travel Dude, the happy-go-lucky go anywhere friend or Mr. Hyde Nighttime Guy, the spawn of Freddy Krueger, and my worst nightmare.

Nasty, ugly debate

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I happened across a really troubling blog post on spanking and keeping kids in line and it made me wonder: with all the evidence that spanking makes kids violent, self-loathing, and diminished as human beings, why are so many people still advocating spanking as a discipline solution for their children?

One blogger talks about how children these days don’t know their place, and most of the appended comments recommend spanking. The blogger and commenters make the mistake of conflating spoiling with not spanking. There are plenty of parents who spank, yet spoil; and those who don’t spank, but don’t spoil. The two are not the same issue, despite the single line in the Bible (which can be interpreted to mean gently guide as a shepherd with her crook, rather than beat as an adult with a switch).

Another blogger writes about going against her culture’s insistence on spanking, with fabulously well-adjusted results. She argues that consistent, firm, well defined boundaries work much better than barbed wire for children.

It seems that spanking versus not is being touted as a disciplined versus undisciplined debate. But  discipline means “to teach” and there are many ways to teach.

Hitting teaches people to hit. That being afraid of authority is the way to survive. That might makes right. A survey of spanking studies shows spanking hurts kids long term, but gets them to comply short-term.

Drawing clear boundaries and insisting on respect teaches boundaries and respect. Seems pretty clear what parents and children all need to grow the next generation of thoughtful and respectful citizens.

Maybe not spending enough time together is the issue. Maybe a violent culture is the problem. Maybe not understanding the future consequences of an easy choice is the heart of our problems. Maybe cultures, social, religious, and otherwise, that teach negative consequences for negative behavior instead of positive consequences for positive behavior is wherein our dilemmas lie.

I just think that needing children to do what you tell them, especially on safety issues, is vital. But spanking isn’t the only way to get there.  And wailing about  “kids these days” without looking at how adults these days behave is ridiculous. What does our culture value? Celebrity, scandal, reward with minimal work, money over happiness, good people gone bad (or wild)…if parents sing these tunes, especially while their kids are in the other room using technology in which social boundaries are exploded and consequences are few, no wonder children are out of control.

*Among the respondents without a history of physical or sexual abuse during childhood, those who reported being slapped or spanked “often” or “sometimes” had significantly higher lifetime rates of anxiety disorders (adjusted odds ratio [OR] 1.43, 95% confidence interval [CI] 1.04-1.96), alcohol abuse or dependence (adjusted OR 2.02, 95% CI 1.27-3.21) and one or more externalizing problems (adjusted OR 2.08, 95% CI 1.36-3.16), compared with those who reported “never” being slapped or spanked. There was also an association between a history of slapping or spanking and major depression, but it was not statistically significant (adjusted OR 1.64, 95% CI 0.96-2.80). INTERPRETATION: There appears to be a linear association between the frequency of slapping and spanking during childhood and a lifetime prevalence of anxiety disorder, alcohol abuse or dependence and externalizing problems.”  source Canadian Medical Association journal Oct. 1999

Unsolicited parenting advice

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Over at Bad Mommy Moments there is a dumping ground for all your parenting advice, to enable who want to ignore another batch of well meaning parents a place to peruse and ignore.

I wanted, though, to put my two  cents here, because I can get my readers to add to Bad Mommy’s list of “lose your expectations,” “laugh at  yourself,”  “always apologize,” and the ever popular “don’t go to the indoor playground hungover” advice. And because if my readers don’t hit her comment section my invaluable and genius advice will go to waste. So I offer these points for your complete disregard:

1. Find the parenting book that agrees with you, and only read that one. The others are all full of crap. Clearly, since they don’t agree with you.

2. While you’re pregnant, you can get used to having a child by having a timer set in your house to go off every 10 minutes; and every time it rings, do the opposite of what you’re doing. while holding a gallon of milk under your arm. (Not by the handle. That’s too bloody easy.) You may not continue ANYTHING for more than 10 minutes.

3. Practice the following lines for advice that makes you want to smash your fist into something soft and tooth-filled:
“That’s an interesting way to look at it.”
“Hmmmmm.”
“Well, we’re going to try it this way for a while.”
“That’s what our pediatrician told us to do.”
That’s all you need. Any more polite than that and the idiots will think they’re right. I use “Well, you had your chance with yours, and now it’s my turn.” Be careful. This is only for advanced curmudgeons who enjoy putting people off.

4. You will find the most unusual advocates, and those who you expect to support you will turn on you. So test everybody out, and run screaming from the people who make you question yourself.

5. Breastfeeding is not easy but almost any problem can be solved, so get help. Really.

6. People will tell you to make sure you take time for yourself. You will nod, and think, “of course I will.” Yeah, well, schedule it now. Put an hour right around bathtime and dinner on the calendar for five nights a week. LEAVE THE HOUSE for that hour. If you’re single, get someone to come over and help. If you work outside the home, your time by yourself is the ride to work and the times you get to pee and eat alone. If you don’t get to pee by yourself at work, consider changing careers.*

*And if you have to pump while you pee at work, call the state office of employment, because that’s probably illegal.

7. Let go of the little stuff. For two reasons: one, you can’t do it  all, and two, if you don’t pick your battles, you will lose your mind. In our house we don’t care about bibs or stains or matching clothes or eating with forks. We don’t limit the number of band-aids we put on the outside of our clothes or the number of chores we willing hand over to someone who does them significantly less well but does them because he wants to be part of the family.Boy in pink sandals and toenail polish? Okay. Tricycle in the house? Okay. We hold the line firmly on the important things. Seat belts. Sunscreen. Hats outside. Hold hands in the street. Helmet. Only gentle touches. Thank you notes. That’s about it as far as rules go.  (Hush, all you fans of chocolate day who found out there’s a limit on the quantity that day.)

8. Nobody else has to raise your kid, so nobody else gets to tell you how to do it. The ONLY thing to listen to is your gut. They’re your children. You’ll know, if you’re really honest with yourself, what they need.

9. Invent milestones that they will always remember. There are a few major holidays, but do camping in the living room (and the backyard), and half birthdays with half cakes, and breakfast for dinner nights, and board game nights.

10. And the most important: Do not, do not, do not think that breastfeeding is birth control. Seriously, that’s playing Russian Roulette with the easy-bake baby oven, friends.

Awesome children’s books

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After reading this AP story on gender-biased children’s stories, and after hearing a compelling feminist reading of the Berenstein Bears books at the Southwestern Popular Culture Association conference a few months ago, I’ve redoubled my efforts to find rocking children’s books. (I’ve already posted about how, in our house Ming Lo’s wife has a name, not just “Ming Lo’s wife” and dads appear in stories that are only written about child and mum.)

One new title in our library, after hearing friends’ laments about princess bullshit and distress over the Barbie dilemma, is The Paper Bag Princess by Robert Munsch. The short version? Princess rescues the prince, and when he criticizes the paper bag she had to wear to get there, she heads into the sunset without him.

Between thid princess and finishing Flux, which reminded me that, though Spouse and I negotiated roles before  getting married and before having Peanut, we need to revisit the discussion to readjust the “default” setting of mom doing everything related to anything. So I’m going to hand off all the domestic duties to Spouse (haven’t told him that yet) because I’m trying to raise a feminist, and that can only happen if I do more of my freelance work and less housekeeping. (You may TOTALLY borrow that justification for yourself. It’s genuinely why I’m slacking on housework [starting now; before this I was trying desperately to do a decent job because of social expectations] but intentional transition of work avoids being shirking and will teach the whole family a lesson *only* if Spouse actually picks up the slack.  Otherwise we just become a penicillin experminent gone awry. I’ll keep you posted.)

Perspective

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A sweet family member saw some pictures of Peanut on facebook the other day and said something to the effect of “I don’t understand how someone so cute can be such a terror…”  And I need to clarify, for my own sake (and for his grandma, who reads this blog and did a damned fine job raising Spouse)

Peanut is wonderful. Sweet, gentle, spirited, intense. But compounding that is the fact that he’s three. Before that he was two. Right there, ‘nough said, right? Two can be like having all the poles on your batteries reversed as they are attached to your watering eyeballs. And three can be like peeling off your skin and diving into grapefruit juice. And I just can’t take it. Doesn’t mean he’s actually a terror that Spouse and I talk, daily, mutually, about a 4:30 bedtime for Peanut. He’s not the problem. WE are the problem. We grownups who can’t seem to find the patience and willpower and energy to make it through 15 hours of this every day.  Without a break. Without formal training. Without the benefit of a spare in case we actually sell him to the gypsies. (Anyone know if they’re buying, btw? And where to find them? I know the economy is tough and I don’t know the going rate, but…)

He’s not a terror. We are terrified and terror-stricken and terrorized. But it’s not the boy’s fault. I wish I knew whose fault it is, because I’m all about the blame and the downside and the cloud within the silver lining. But until I find some perspective, my friend is right. It’s a good thing he’s cute.