February 28, 2005
Over the weekend Dash probably said the word “sorry” a thousand times. On Friday, he took Sophie’s squeaky ball away [I know, it’s practically animal cruelty, please don’t call PETA], and I told him to say he was sorry. Hey, Sophie needs to hear it sometimes.
He said sorry [”sowwy”] and went about his business. I thanked him and gave him a high five. For the rest of the weekend, any time he needed anything, threw anything under his bed [he likes to make me chase shit he hides or throws away] or did something wrong, I heard sowwy.
“Uh oh, sowwy!”
“Please Mommy? Sowwy.”
“Pee pee? Sowwy.”
“Ovaltine [’Obalatine’] please? Sowwy.”
Remember when we taught him how to tells us he needed something? The following weeks were an echo chamber of “I NEED, I NEED, I NEED, I NEED!” Now I’m sitting here pulling my hair out, wondering if I can tolerate one more friggin’ apology!
February 27, 2005
Like so many other moms, I sometimes find myself bogged down with petty and obnoxious mommy politics. There is really no escape, since these days, all moms are (apparently) fighting for some kind of mommy prize after death. They sit and talk, gossip, philosophize about their children and other children, their friends and their friends’ friends, you name it, they have the answer.
I’m not sure what makes a mom think she has all the answers, but I wish I could get my hands on that drug and enter the state of hallucination where I believe that I am fit to judge and correct every other mom I come into contact with. These are the women that I lovingly (or not so lovingly) refer to as Boss Moms: they always have the answer, they’ve done everything more often and better than you, and they know exactly “what is wrong” with your child based on simple observation, and it’s usually your fault.
See, for the Boss Mom, a perfect child is possible. More often than not, they believe their child is perfect, not in the I Love My Child and He/She Will Always be Perfect to Me, but in the I am the Greatest Parent on the Planet, of Course My Child is Perfect. They see every challenge met by their child as a notch in their belt, each word, song and milestone met a tribute to their perfect parenting. Not only that, they expect other moms to take heed, and follow their instructions.
Recently an acquaintance of mine was lamenting about her son’s recent jump in shoe sizes. It just so happened that I had a pair of Dash’s shoes that he had worn only a couple times before he grew out of them, and I offered them to her. She looked at me as if I had suggested her son go play in the highway by himself, saying “Don’t you know? Children can’t share shoes, it’s bad for their feet!”
Fine. Bad for their feet. Do you know how many pairs of shoes I inherited from siblings and friends? Even if you don’t want the damned shoes, be polite about it. For all she knew, I had planned on scrapbooking those damned shoes, and was barely willing to part with them. I was trying to be nice, not attempting to screw up your child’s perfect fucking feet.
Moms like this make me want to move Dash to a farm house in the middle of the Texas hill country and never make friends again. I didn’t have four play dates a week growing up, nor did I have a playground right outside my house, or a tent in my living room. I didn’t have a soccer team when I was three, or a network of children and friends that swarmed me at every moment — why should he?
Things were different when we were kids. If there was a birthday party, I got dropped off. My mom had the right idea (and my mother in law actually suggested a similar idea in a recent post’s comment section): don’t throw a birthday party in such a way that all these mothers feel the need to come and stay unless they simply just can’t part with their child for two hours. Every birthday party, every play date, every meeting has to be an orchestrated event planned with careful grace and politics, in order to keep all the moms happy. What they don’t see is that they are totally over-shadowing their children’s time by making the entire day about themselves. I can think of at least three moms that I know who would consider me a bad mom for dropping Daschel off at a friend’s house and not staying. What does it matter if I’m there for every second of it? Afraid that I won’t be there to explain to him “The nice lady is trying to help you learn how to share, can we say share? That’s it, good sharing, Dash, you are so smart, congratulations!”? Give me a fucking break.
You know how I learned to share? By playing with slightly older kids in my neighborhood who quickly taught me (by example) that by sharing, people are more likely to share with you. Simple. My mother never felt the need to turn each lesson into a Super Mom show. If I misbehaved, I was punished, end of story. If any of us couldn’t be nice to friends, we didn’t have friends over. Most importantly, we learned from each other as siblings, and never really had any issues with friends as youngsters. I like to think it was because our mother wasn’t constantly trying to perform for her mommy friends.
These days, however, you’re lucky if you find another parent who doesn’t stress over these kinds of things, constantly trying to display her uber-skills to you. “Watch how I handle this, Paige, you’ll need this in a few months when Dash starts hitting.” Good for you, Super Mom, telling your child (in language he’s not likely to understand) that hitting is bad, as my child sits there listening to your calm, soothing voice thinking that he somehow missed the boat for reassurance. What my son just experienced was a) being hit, and b) his attacker being cuddled and talked to. Bravo. I can’t wait to try that technique out for myself. Why not let them figure it out on their own? Unless someone is getting seriously hurt, what can we really bring to the table that doesn’t alienate one of the kids? I can’t swoop in and save Dash every time something bad happens to him, it’s just not realistic. I don’t want to feel like I have to just because Super Mom can’t resist an opportunity to display her prowess on the playground.
This kind of self-congratulatory parenting drives me nuts. I know a lot of it stems from things we as mothers can’t control, but at a certain point we have to relax or child-rearing will cease to be an enjoyable, fulfilling experience. We are indeed bombarded with images of Do-It-All moms on television, and certainly have met one or two (if not more) Uber Moms who seem to have it all together, but that’s not everyone. I’m not here to judge you, I just want our kids to have fun once a week. I’ve listened to women, in total seriousness, blame mothers for a child’s mistakes, and it makes me sick.
“You know why he hits, don’t you? It’s because she lets him rough-house with his older brother. I just don’t understand how she can let that happen.”
KIDS PLAY ROUGH, stop blaming her! Since when was parenting a competition? Why is it impossible for me to find a mother who isn’t going to spend the entire play date comparing our children and in turn comparing us in some effort to figure out who is doing a better job? Is it because we have so little else in our lives we feel the need to turn parenting into a sport? I sit in these playgroups and get-togethers wondering what would happen if I dared to mention a book I just read, or a song that I like. It’s not allowed. There are only three topics that we can discuss: parenting, our husbands, and how stressed out we are. Guess what? I DON’T CARE!
I am so lucky that German kindergarten starts at age three. My child will be there, sans mommy, learning his alphabet and German numbers in a relatively non-competetive environment. Until then, only minimal play dates. I’d never deprive my son of being socially active with kids his age, but I refuse to let him (or me) become a part of the machine that is Uber Mom.
February 24, 2005
Daschel is invited to a birthday party tomorrow, and I’m seriously considering running away from home. It’s not just the thought of trying to pick out a present for a child I barely know, it’s not merely the anticipation of five to six hours with adults I barely know, and it’s not simply the fact that I absolutely hate watching children tear through hundreds of dollars worth of presents they won’t remember in fifteen minutes…it’s all of these things and more.
I wrote about Daschel’s last birthday party invitation, and I’ll share it because tomorrow I’m going to relive one of the most annoying events of my entire life.
PART ONE: THE INVITE
It all starts innocently enough: you invite kids to your child’s party, and they invite you to theirs. It’s not so much a polite thing as it is an expectation for these kids to make appearances for your camera. Get them in front of the camera, get a couple decent pictures, and bam, party saved for posterity. Who actually cares what happens when all these kids get together? Dash’s party sucked because it was a) outdoors and b) hastily planned. Today’s party, for a girl named Emma, was over-planned and staged to such a degree that none of these kids had any fun. Well, a few did, but that was despite the adults’ best efforts to control the entire gig.
GETTING THE GIFT
Since everyone expects a gift, you try to put on a show like you thought really hard about what to get the kid, and wind up in a Wal Mart 20 minutes before the party throwing stuff in a bag with tulle and hoping at least one of the pieces of crap you’ve grabbed is of interest to the child. As much as I enjoyed being able to buy a little pink party bag, I have to admit I was dumbfounded at the prospect of buying an item for a 3 year old girl. What do they use? What do they like? Everything I saw seemed too “grown up” for her, and things I thought seemed appropriate in retrospect seemed too kiddie. I wind up popping into a nearby mall and getting her a wax job coupon and a gift certificate at Forever 21.
GREETINGS & PRETEND EXCITEMENT
“OH LEESHA I’M SO GLAD TO SEE YOU!” “PAIGE!!! WE’RE SO GLAD YOU COULD MAKE IT!!”, exclaims Leesha as she leans in for a fake hug, securing her sweaty palms on the strings of the little pink bag. “AND OH MY, A GIFT! YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE!” You’re right, I shouldn’t have. Leesha quickly introduces us to a gaggle of friends and family, all of whom look like extras from a Conway Twitty video circa 1983. Long, forlorn faces quickly muster a “It seems like we just got here” expression for my benefit, then quickly resume whatever conversations they were having before I arrived.
IS IT OVER YET?
These poor kids. Emma especially. Poor girl tries to wander around Chuck E. Cheese’s only to be met by a relative with a camera at every turn. Mom has one end covered, Dad at the other. Each time she tries to evade them in an effort to catch up with the other kids to play, a parent yells “EMMA SMILE!” or “HEY EMMA DO THAT DANCE”. The child is sweating, exhausted 1 hour into the party, and has yet to play a game or run around with her friends. Chuck E. comes out and gathers the kids to sing a song on the “stage”, which is little more than a blue carpet and a curtain. Dash runs up, and passes a friend from school, Connor, along the way. I look at Connor’s mom and ask, “Would Connor like to come up and dance with Dash and the others?” “No, Connor isn’t finished with his pizza yet.” What is this, Christmas dinner at Daddy Warbucks’ mansion? He has to finish his pizza before you’ll let him play?
CUTTING OUT EARLY & SAVING TOKENS FOR THE NEXT CRAPFEST
After two and a half hours, some Cheese employees scamper out from behind the curtain and yell, “ARE WE READY TO START THIS PARTY???!??!?!?!?!” I look around helplessly at the other parents, who seem oblivious to the insanity of which they are a part. Maybe it is because all of the parents were there with their husbands and wives, and actually had another adult to converse with, one who wasn’t intent on talking to everyone like they talk to their 3 year old. Maybe they were actually entertained by stoned 17 year olds dancing around like puppets for their children. Or maybe
they were stoned, and loving every minute of it. All I know is that anytime I’ve been somewhere dreadful for two and a half hours, and someone tells me it’s just starting, I look for an exit.
February 22, 2005
Just because my last entry was a tad … emotional, I’ve decided to relay a humorous Daschel story to take the edge off.
Today I was in the kitchen watering my plants and he came running in with his new little Boots (from Dora the Explorer) gadget with him. He had just figured out that pulling the tail made Boots do a little dance. Thrilled, he ran up to me at full speed, stopped just short of running into me and yelled, “YO! Boots dancing!” and proceeded to imitate the electronic jig himself.
Voila.
