Never mind me, I’m just sitting here eating my words. I’ve been going on and on for the past few years about how wonderful the ten year age difference between my first and third kid is, and well, now I’ve hit a snag and have been forced to ‘fess up about it.

I bragged about how wonderful my son was with the baby. He held her when she was small, marveled in her milestones, rocked her, played with her, then as she grew he gave her piggy-back rides, got her juice and turned on her TiVoed Scooby Doo shows for her. I made my friends green over my live-in babysitter, allowing my husband and me to escape on weekend nights to movies or grown up dinners. All of that is still true. She adores him, he’s her hero. He thinks she’s a living doll. The trouble is not their relationship with each other. It’s their relationship with me.

I’m a smart person, one with a degree in psychology, and actually one who tends to be anxious and lie awake at night following worst case scenarios to their most horrific end. So why did I not see that at some point in this little dream family, I would be mothering a 3 year-old and a 13 year-old at the same time?

You know that scene with Homer Simpson swinging between a rock and A Hard Place? That’s me, being pulverized to dust between the toddler and the teenager.

To make it worse, they share tactics. Exchange strategies. Commiserate. I have the only three year-old in the world who stomps her foot, shouts at me, “I HATE you, you never do anything for me, leave me ALONE!” and then stomps off, slams the door behind herself and climbs into her crib. When I go in to get her, she shoves her fingers in her ears and sings, “La-La-La-La, I can’t HEAR you!” He, on the other hand is not above turning on fake water works to try to make his case more dramatic. In private. He has too much self respect to do it where any of his peeps might see. Really, I could give a dozen scenarios and quiz you—is it the teen or the toddler? And the only clue you’d have would be the size of the vocabulary, and even that is blurry, since the little one’s is expanding and the big one drops a few IQ points when he yells.

Everywhere I turn these days, there’s fear of stepping on some hidden trip wire in their delicate psyches and blowing the whole house to bits. I’m good at diffusing and ignoring and standing my ground with things. Tantrums never did really faze me. But, when there are two of them, it’s just not fair. And what works with one isn’t appropriate for the other. There are times when I would just love to hoist the big one over my shoulder and carry him out to the parking lot, strap him into his seat and tsk tsk sympathetically all the way home, “I’m sorry we had to leave like that, but when mommy says you need to stop, mommy means it, maybe next time you’ll remember that.” And, there are times with the little one when I’m dying to say, “Look, we’ve been through this, you got your answer, now leave me alone and go deal with it somewhere else, because I am DONE talking about it.” But, I can’t. The big one is too heavy and the little one won’t go away when you tell her to. They can compare notes and study each other’s techniques, but I can’t just use one universal response for both of them.

I give myself pep talks. This is normal development for both of them. Teens are supposed to be obstinate, belligerent, irrational and fickle with a dose of paranoia (“You hate me! You love her more! You wish I was never born!”) Three year-olds are supposed to obstinate, belligerent, irrational and fickle with a dose of grandeur (“No, YOU stop it, mommy! YOU’RE being bad! No, YOU sit down! Bad mommy!”) It’s normal. It’s all so agonizingly normal. They will grow out of it. I will help them along and not become a child abuser or alcoholic along the way. Then I’ll have a 4 year-old and a teenager which is better than a 3 year-old and a teenager, and surely 14 is better than 13, right? Right? I’m sure it is. Pass the salt, please.

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So, let’s get one thing straight: I don’t really like kids all that much.
 
OK, scratch that.
 
I don’t like YOUR kids that much.
 
I happen to really like my own. Just not yours.

 I happen to think my own child is perfectly hilarious when he farts loudly in public. I think it’s cute when he regurgitates sweet potato puree down the front of his miniature Cubs jersey.  I make others stare at him while I try to get him to make, “This face he made the other night that was so funny…Kevin, jump up and down again and see if he’ll do it…I swear, it was so funny.”
 
I do not think it’s endearing when anyone else’s kid does it. In fact? It’s pretty annoying. Actually? Your kid is bothering me. Please take it out to the car and give it a spanking.

When I was pregnant, I had lunch with a childless friend of mine. A toddler at the table next to us began throwing a temper tantrum, complete with screaming and throwing of toys. My friend rolled her eyes then caught my eye. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

I responded that she shouldn’t be apologetic; I found the child hideously annoying and just because I was having a child myself didn’t mean I suddenly became tolerant of children misbehaving in public. (I should also add I wouldn’t have been nearly as annoyed had the parents properly responded by whispering death threats through clenched teeth while yanking the kid out of the restaurant instead of laughing merrily and continuing to eat their sushi.)

As a parent, I think my child is just the bees’ knees.  I might even think your kid is cute, too.

As an adult, I’d like to enjoy my lunch without the child next to me screaming, “Fie truck! Fie truck! Gimme fie truck!”

I have to tolerate my own kid throwing tantrums. I shouldn’t have to listen to yours.  Now, I’ll do my part by hustling my kid out of any public place when screaming begins and refusing to submit to “Parent Brain,” a condition in which the second after a child is born the parents become blissfully unaware of any social disturbances little Joey is causing.

In short?

I love my kid. I just don’t have to love yours.

And that’s all which is required of a parent, no? 

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I am not a Super-Mommy. I’m not ashamed of it, either. I don’t want to be a Super-Mommy. Heck, I don’t even like Super-Mommies. I’d say I’m an Imperfect Parent, however, that might be implied since I’m writing here. But, I venture further, I dare to say I’m NOT an Imperfect Parent. Ha! There, I said it! You might ask, if I’m not an Imperfect Parent then does that make me a Perfect Parent? Thanks for asking, and yes, it does. Now, hold on a second before running off to call the Slap-The-Bitch hotline on me, let me explain myself. I’m not perfect, but I am a Perfect Parent, and my unique and individual imperfections are what make me so. Not getting it? I’ll try to clarify and maybe in a bit, you’ll boldly declare that you too, are in fact, a Perfect Parent–not despite–but because of your imperfections.

Let’s get the nonsense out of the way at the start. I don’t beat my kids, I don’t neglect them. I don’t lock them in a closet and feed them dog food on paper plates slid under the doors. None of those things are “imperfections” anyway. They’re criminal behaviors. Punishable sins against our dependents. So, now we’ve cleared that up, we don’t need to go down that route again. Imperfect does not go anywhere near abuse. Mmm’K?

Now, on to the so-called imperfections. Helicopter parenting is so popular around here, it’s hard for a mom to keep herself on the ground and not feel like a loser. Kids in my neck of the woods are like conjoined twins—one grubby little kid attached to a full grown woman, who does most of the work associated with being alive. Somehow, this has become our local ideal of what a mother should be. Her success as a parent is defined by how much she does FOR her kid. That’s not me. I’m there to help if my kids need me. I drive, I schedule, I pay. But, I’m not going to DO it. I check homework, I don’t walk though it problem by problem. My kids carry their own book bags and put their own coats, boots and gloves on. The Super-Mommies tut-tut me from underneath the mountain of their children’s belongings while I stand sipping a latte, but I don’t feel bad about it. See, in my world, doing everything for your kids teaches them nothing. They need to fail sometimes to learn how to succeed. The goal is to get your kids able to fend for themselves and move out to live functional lives away from you and provide you with grandchildren to coddle, not to make your kids dependent on you for everything for as long as you live. No grandchildren option in that second scenario.

It has also somehow come to pass that we all are supposed to have the patience and tolerance of the Mother Mary on valium. No yelling, no throwing tantrums or irrational reactions to whatever the little monsters or er, little darlings do. We’re all supposed to admonish bad behavior with carefully rehearsed child-psych approved vocabulary in a gentle sing-songy voice so as to not dent their delicate self-esteem. That’s not me either. I think that’s actually bad. See, I do throw fits when I’ve been pushed over the edge. I’ve been known to over-react when I’m pissed. I’m not ashamed of that either. I’m human. To the best of my knowledge, the world my children live in is inhabited by humans. I don’t see how being some saintly automaton would help them learn to navigate the nuances of human personalities, or how to smooth over an angry person when you’ve done wrong. I think it’s good for them to know that their mother is a human (that in itself is kind of important on so many levels) and secondly that humans react in a variety of ways when they’re shoved over their particular line in the sand. Could be mom yelling, could be a crazy fuck with an automatic weapon. Bottom line is, when people say STOP, they mean it. When my kids are adults and they screw up at work, their boss isn’t going to consult the guru du jour for sympathetic phrasing before letting loose on them. If the kid hasn’t experienced making anyone truly mad and suffering some uncomfortable consequence, how will he not crumple into a fit of tears when he’s yelled at by someone else? Part of building self-esteem is giving kids confidence to handle situations. You’re doing no favors if you don’t teach them how to deal with real people and turn yourself into some Stepford mannequin instead.

I’m not Mommy The Entertainer during all waking hours. I have things I need to do in order for the house to run efficiently. I have chores that need doing during the daytime. Heaven forbid, I know, that my children be forced to run errands with me when they’d rather be doing something else. It’s unthinkable that little kids might have to endure a tiny bit of monotony for the benefit of the rest of the family. I mean, Lord knows I just live for grocery shopping and doing laundry. It’s what I hoped I’d get to do all the time when I grew up. Bad me for not putting them in an environment where they can just play in a ball pit or watch TV while I do the grunt work. No, I drag them along. They learn compromise and negotiation though. You behave at the store and we’ll play a game afterwards. Works for everyone. I also expect that my kids will learn to work through boredom. I do play with them, but most definitely not all day long. They can, and do play by themselves, which is unheard of by my peers.

And finally, I’ve waged war on all things that call themselves educational. It’s the custom here to start at birth in preparing your kid for Yale. I guess before birth, really since there are those headphones you can put on your belly that are supposed to teach foreign languages and classical music. I don’t do flash cards with my toddler. No video games to sneak in learning the alphabet or pre-calculus. I like my kids to play with the cheap dumb toys, like blocks and dolls when they’re little. I guess it’s a wonder they ever learned to talk or write their names, since I held them back so badly, insisting they be children for a while. It drives the Super-Mommies nuts when you do this, try it, really. Super-Mommy slides over to you at the library (with her arms full of coats and snacks) and starts the small talk. You discover your daughters are about the same age (say around two and a half), and she asks if your daughter knows her letters, because, well, they’ve tried everything but her kid still gets half of them wrong and she’s thinking of hiring a tutor, or that Kumon program, do you know anything about that Kumon program? You look at her, and say, “Huh. I don’t know if she knows her letters or not! Hey, Liz, what’s that letter? Yeah, that red thing you’re using as a hammer, it’s a magnetic letter, honey, do you know which letter it is?” And your child responds correctly because she’s somehow learned letters through osmosis. Then you say, “Hmm, I guess she does know them.” Shrug and walk away.

No, I’m not perfect. I’m a human in charge of raising up smaller humans. My imperfections make me the perfect candidate for that job. My children come first and I lead my life in a way that I believe will make them well prepared for life without me. I aim to balance building up their confidence while giving them tastes of reality, to further build up their confidence. I’m not racing for some medal. There is no Best Super Mommy prize at the end. My reward will be when my children are self-sufficient adults, happy, productive and living in a clean house I can visit. So, if you’re like me, then shed that guilt. Embrace those imperfections and hang up that phone, I’m not the bitch you want slapped. I’m just a Perfect Parent, and you probably are too.

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A long term study was conducted in New Zealand on the effects of spanking children and concluded that not only is it okay to smack your kids, it could be beneficial.

Although we’re not personally of the spanking ilk, I do think that when used judiciously (and rarely), and in cases of dire consequence and safety matters (like a child repeatedly trying to run out into the street or spitting on you when asked nicely to do something), it’s okay. I do find myself cringing however, every time this article uses the word “smacked”. It just doesn’t sit right with me. Spanking seems so much less severe and harsh. Or how about love taps? Can we call them that?

Of course, they really ruin it for parents who spank (not me!) when they bring up the kids that are abused and neglected, and throw them into the whole “smacked” group.  You wind up saying to yourself, “I don’t want to be associated with those freaks”, so you just drop your stance altogether, and kids continue to be brattier and more and more self absorbed. I know this may have nothing to do with spanking, but I sure as hell it has something to do with lack of discipline.

Thoughts?

AP source, published in World News Australia:

The lead author of the study, psychologist Jane Millichamp, said that the project appeared to be the world’s first long-term study to specifically identify and monitor participants who had simply been smacked with an open hand.

Preliminary analysis showed that those subjects had “similar or even slightly better outcomes” than those who were not smacked in terms of aggression, substance abuse, adult convictions and school achievement.

“Study members in the ’smacking only’ category of punishment appeared to be particularly high-functioning and achieving members of society,” Ms Millichamp said.

“I have looked at just about every study I can lay my hands on, and there are thousands, and I have not found any evidence that an occasional mild smack with an open hand on the clothed behind or the leg or hand is harmful or instills violence in kids,” she said.

“I know that is not a popular thing to say, but it is certainly the case.”

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