Writer James Lileks has come up with an interesting way of dealing with his daughter’s broken Nintendo:

(G)Nat dropped her Nintendo and it broke. This is a teachable moment, in which she learned an important lesson: don’t drop your Nintendo, or it will break. Also, a replacement is not immediately forthcoming. The world doesn’t work that way. Well, her world doesn’t work that way. I will not let her use savings to ut a new one, because she has no concept of money; I have told her she can wait three months, which is a mean cruel ETERNITY, but: she can hasten the day by spending Nintendo time on other things, such as reading and art. The more she does that, the faster Replacement Day comes.

I’ll admit, I may talk a good game but often I’m a total pushover. I have — on more than one occasion — immediately replaced a lost or broken toy (provided, of course, it was an accident and not due to carelessness). Even went so far that when a beloved stuffed animal went missing, I went on eBay and got into a bidding war to purchase a new one.

How do you handle such situations? Do you — finances permitting — buy a new one or do you turn it into a life lesson?

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Allow me to introduce myself, I am the woman you glare at in the grocery aisle, because her children are running amok. I am the woman with the two cart fulls of groceries, who you always get stuck behind in the check out line. I am the one you do not want at your Mom’s Club gatherings, because we are always late and usually forget snack when it is our turn. I am the owner of that dirty, fifteen passenger van in the school pick up line, who takes forever to load up her spawn. I am the maternity ward patient who all the nurses know by name. I’m the mom with a baby permanently attached to her hip and boogers crusted on her shoulder. I am the lady who makes women glad that they have only one child. I am the parent who does it all, but masters nothing. I am an imperfect parent of seven children. Around these parts, I go by the name of “Mooooooom, make him stop!” But you can call me “Kadi.”

I decided to join the ranks of the Imperfect Parent crew for a few reasons:

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I would like to be able to tell you that I am one of those perpetually peaceful people who seem to radiate a slightly smug contentedness from deep within their soul. I would like to be able to tell you that I write in a gratitude diary every day, right after my 6am Yogalates session and bowl of organic muesli. I would like to be able to tell you that I am able to handle anything my children throw at me – figuratively speaking – because I am inherently calm and happy and balanced. I would like to be able to tell you I’m like that because I would like to be like that but the thing is, I’m not. Maybe in a parallel universe, but not this one. I’m just not good at relaxing. During the birth of my second daughter, I tried very hard to breathe deeply through the contractions, to focus my energies inward and breathe the pain out. My husband later told me that I sounded like a horse.

In this universe, I’m just your average, garden-variety ineffective parent whose favourite method for calming down involves a large glass of shiraz and an even larger block of chocolate, and whose body would simply snap in half if made to do the downward dog.

When my mother was a stay-at-home-mother of four she went to yoga classes once a week – we used to say she was going to Yoghurt Classes – and she once told me that yoga saved her sanity in those days. So one day I went to a yoga class for new mothers and stretched for about 50 minutes before being told to lie down and listen to the lovely music and breathe deeply and just as I felt the tension melt away and the thoughts leave my troubled mind and just as I reached that state of blissful contentment… I fell asleep. I might have snored. Well, at least I didn’t neigh.

I really love the idea of meditation, but although I have tried I just can’t do it without the snoring. So, like all good mothers, I am living the life of a calm and contented human being vicariously through my children. My kids are learning to meditate. In our house, every day ends with reading from a book called The Wishing Star: Meditations for Children by Marneta Viegas. There’s a good reason why this is a good thing.

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Under the For Sale section:

FREE TO GOOD HOME: Baby. Eight Months. Cute. Likes: pulling on dog tails, picking outlet covers off electrical sockets, waking every two hours at night, twenty minute naps, screaming in public, practicing a new whining technique that involves a high-pitched squeal/ear-drum-shattering dolphin noise, throwing entire body down on the ground when a bottle is not supplied fast enough, shaking head back and forth in a disagreeable fashion. Dislikes: sleeping, behaving, not screaming, not being held, being tickled, singing and other humans.

Under the Wanted section:

WANTED: Baby from last week. Baby who cuddled, laughed, played and generally did not scream whenever not being held. Baby who slept twelve hours at night and took two hour-and-a-half naps. Baby who was described by a stranger at Target as having a “sweet disposition.” May have also been called “a happy little guy.”

Ugh.

Can you tell I’m in the middle of four-teeth-coming-in-all-at-once-because-God-hates-me hell?

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On one particular road trip I gained some very useful insight into the world of effective mothering. Let me explain…

In the car was myself (age 26, no kids, but hubby and I will be procreating in the coming years), Friend A (30, she and dh have decided not to breed), Friend B (39, mother of a 13 year old girl and 9 year old boy), and Friend C (46, mother of a 21 year old girl, 19 year old boy, and 14 year old girl). As you can imagine, our conversations, opinions, and views of the world differ greatly — and manage to form a wonderfully weird recipe for comic relief.

Friend C takes a phone call from 19 year old son who is away at college and happy to make regular withdraws from the Bank of Mom & Dad: “I just feel so damn guilty every time I talk to him. He doesn’t have a job. He has no money. I feel like I should be sending him more. All of his friends are out having fun, and I know he’s in his room because he’s broke. Really, so f’ing guilty.”

Myself and Friend A offer the only condolence and advice we can think of: “You’re a wonderful mother!” “Don’t feel guilty! He’ll get a job soon, once he realizes that you and husband won’t financially support him.” “It will get better, don’t beat yourself up over it.”

Friend B then offers up the kind of wisdom that only a mother could concoct: “Screw feeling guilty! Just do what our mothers, and their mothers before them, did — transfer your guilt onto that little shit.”

Problem solved.

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It’s been eight and a half months since my son was born. And I’m just now starting to get the hang of this whole parenting thing. The sleepless nights, sleep-walking days, endless baby food crusted everywhere and purse filled with baby bottles are now starting to become just another part of the routine, like brushing my teeth and putting in my contacts. But it seriously has taken over eight months to somewhat figure these things out. Seems like quite a large learning curve, huh?

When I was pregnant, I read all the requisite books on everything that was happening to my body, what would happen in labor, the right kind of crib to buy, the safest carseat, etc. While all those things are important, I wish I would’ve been WAY more informed on what it was like to actually have a new baby. A pre-natal program for soon-to-be-first-time-parents. Like bootcamp.

It wouldn’t even have to be that in-depth. Just a few, well-chosen seminars to help new parents learn the essential survival skills and build self-esteem. A kind of Outward Bound for expecting couples.

How do these classes sound?

One-Handed Eating 102: Learn to consume any food of your choosing using only one of your hands, as the other will be occupied by a screaming newborn.

Self-Restraint 306: Discover techniques to resist impulse purchases made while watching infomercials and the Home Shopping Channel at 3am while nursing your baby.

Flashcards 101: In this class, you will make notecards of important information such as your name, address, phone number, age and husband’s name to be used when your brain is in total meltdown mode because you’ve had four-and-a-half hours of sleep over two weeks.

Snapping 908A: Discover the secret of “snaps”–fifteen second zone-out “naps.” Learn how to utilize them while doing almost anything including showering, peeing and paying bills.

Speed-Packing 203: At the end of this class, you’ll be able to pack four bottles, a light-up keychain toy, a baggie of cheerios, your wallet, cell phone, diapers, wipes, diaper cream, antibacterial hand lotion and pacifier into a tiny handbag. Prerequisite: Preparing To Leave the House 105

Any takers?

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We have a situation in our house. A three-year-old lives there. She’s very short and very smart and very strong and wants to do everything. Here are some examples of life with her:

Person A: Person B, can you please pass the salt?

Three-year-old: I’ll do it! I’ll do it! I’ll do it! I want to pass the salt! Give me the salt, I want to do it!

Then Person B ends up getting the salt, handing it to the Three-year-old, who then hands it to Person A (knocking over a cup and getting her sleeve in someone else’s food in the process), or the salt ends up with Person A, who has to give it to the Three-year-old before using it, and then ask for it from her, acting as though the whole Person B interference never happened.

Person A: Persons B and C, can you help me bring in the groceries from the car?

Three year-old: I’ll do it! I’ll do it! I’ll do it! I want to bring in groceries from the car! I want to carry them in!

This means she has to stop, drop, put her shoes on the wrong feet, get out the door, run to the car and get handed a grocery bag which Person A has emptied most of the contents from to make light enough for Three-year-old to carry on her own.

The soundtrack of my life these days is that “Helping” tune from Free to Be You and Me, the one that Shel Silverstein wrote and Tommy Smothers sings:

Agatha Fry, she made a pie
And Christopher John helped bake it
Christopher John, he mowed the lawn
And Agatha Fry helped rake it

And some kind of help is the kind of help
That helping’s all about
And some kind of help is the kind of help
We all can do without

On an album all about feminism and equality, I always thought that was an odd selection. But, it’s my landline these days, because that Shel, he knows kids. He’s been there and back and given us the word. I guess the point of including it on that particular album was to show that boys and girls, black, white or purple, are all equally annoying when they’re three. I sing that last line like it’s part of the Lord’s Prayer. The Three-year-old just thinks I’m funny.

But, the sad thing is, somewhere along the way, that enthusiasm fades away and we realize that the things we were so eager to help with before are actually work and we acquire an aversion to work. It’s also quite interesting how our enjoyment of work decreases at the same rate as the expectation of work increases.

Think about what YOU could do in your adult body with your adult brain if you had the enthusiasm and reckless desire to do good of a three-year-old. You’d be freaking Wonder Woman! Shit would get done. But, you don’t. None of us do. We sit and think Aww, shoot, do I really have to get up and do that, or can I put it off…or make someone else do it? Because that’s what being an adult is. We pace our energy expenditures and use our big brains to figure out ways of avoiding expending too much energy.

This cross over seems to happen in my house at around the age of 8. Maybe it happens at a different age in other houses, I don’t know, Shel hasn’t written a poem or asked a Smothers Brother to sing a song about that yet. But, I can tell you in my family, the thirteen year-old has passed through and is on our grown-up side now. He can spot a bit of work a mile away, no matter how well you think you’re dressing it up. He knows work and will do it if you make him (or compensate him for it). But, otherwise, he’s got better things to do, like lying on the couch, staring up at the ceiling and whining about how bored he is. The first part of last year, the middle one could be “Tom Sawyered” into doing something for you, but then she’d realize at some point during the task that it was actually work. So, we got a lot of windows cleaned, surfaces dusted and floors swept part way through before the grumbling started. Now, at nine, she knows better.

I guess the point is, take the help now while you can get it. A little clumsy, but enthusiastic and eager to please isn’t the worst thing a kid could be. They mean well at this age and really want to help. So, buy those miniature Dirt Devils that really vacuum, get the broom with the turtle face on it, invest in Swiffer products, because this isn’t going to last, so exploit it for all it’s worth.

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Kid: Dad, you can’t just leave Jared over there, he’s only 2.

Dad: Don’t worry, I’m watching him.

Jared runs out the door of the children’s section.

Kid: See?

Fin

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My younger daughter, Ella, is seven years old. A few weeks ago she spent the night at a friend’s house and stayed up late and ate junk food and did all that stuff that usually happens at a sleep-over that makes you sigh and shake your head and tuck her into bed a little earlier the next night. But she also got to watch a movie that was rated suitable for mature audiences, and I have to tell you that’s the bit that worried me the most.

The mother of the friend is a good friend of mine, which complicates things a little. I like that we are all friends, and that our daughters play happily together in the backyard while we gossip on the back porch (sometimes, shhh, we have a glass of wine). On the one hand, we’re good enough friends that I could tell her that I don’t want Ella watching M-rated movies and she’ll be fine with that. But on the other, I don’t want her thinking that I’m questioning her judgment and that this somehow means I’m questioning everything about her. I know how much I worry when someone gives me some slightly negative feedback - I immediately start making a mental list of the zillion other things they must hate about me too.

Perhaps I would not have worried so much about the movie if Ella hadn’t had a nightmare. She told me that she was having a bad dream about the movie she saw, and we (her Dad and I) told her not to be silly, it wasn’t a scary movie, you’re just making excuses to stay up late. In the end she was so over-tired and overwrought that we banished her from the room she shares with her sister and made her sleep in the spare room.  But just to reassure ourselves, we checked parentsinmind.com to see what the classification police had to say about the movie. Oh, dear. References to humans having sex with animals. A man kicks a young woman’s head off. A man whips himself on the back and we see bloody slashes.

Yes, we punished her for having a nightmare after she watched an M-rated movie.  That has to count as one of our least proud, most imperfect, parenting moments.
In the end I decided not to say anything to my friend about it  - what’s done is done - but if Ella is invited to stay over again I’m going to put on my Serious Concerned Mother face and just ask that she limit the viewing choices to the bottom shelf - the one with all the Disney cartoons.

The movie classifications are there for a reason, telling us very clearly that some smart people in a government office somewhere have given the whole matter a great deal of thought and no, this film shouldn’t be seen by seven year olds.  Why question it?  Why take the chance that our kids might find references to humans having sex with animals a little upsetting instead of hilariously funny?

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On Sunday, my son started crawling. He’d been trying for weeks now, doing the rocking on all fours and swimming motions until he’d get frustrated and start to cry. So, we were thrilled when he finally figured it out; the neurons in his brain all zapped at the same time and he scooted around.

Scratch that.

I was thrilled. My husband? Not so much.

After the initial, “Oh my god, he learned something new” feeling wore off, my husband turned into our house’s President of Homeland Security. Suddenly, EVERYTHING became a death-trap/potential injury. The remote control: dangerous electrical-shorting device. The coffee table: sharply-edged apparatus. Curtains: material which can be used in a noose-like manner. And so on.

While I see his point and understand the importance of child-proofing our place, I guess I’m just a lot more laid-back since I’m the oldest of four siblings and have pretty much seen it all. He, in turn, is the youngest of four siblings and doesn’t have the memory of his sister inserting a penny into an electrical socket the way I do. (And she turned out normal. Well, I not normal, per se, but she is physically fine.)

Like tonight, when I went to answer the door and came back to find my son sucking on the dog’s bone. My husband was ready to call the ER while I shrugged it off.

I’ve tried to tell him this is just the beginning; just wait until he starts walking. But the mere mention of toddling nearly sent my husband to the store to buy bubble wrap to encase our furniture, the television and the cats.

So, enjoy your lives ladies and gents. I’ll be here. At home. Trying to prevent my husband from turning my child into The Baby In The Plastic Bubble.

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