Opinions on parenting

I used to have a lot of opinions on how parents should raise their kids. 

Then I had children. 

Little by little, year by year, my opinions grew weaker until they began to disappear altogether. They were replaced by opinions on how I should raise my own kids, whose needs I understand thoroughly, and who belong to a family, whose needs, talents and limitations are very clear to me. 

But the more kids I have and the longer I raise them, the fewer opinions I have about parenting in general. That's because I see the tremendous range of children out there and the tremendous range of families who are trying their absolute best to support those kids and love those kids and make those kids into great adults. I see how little I actually see of families inner workings, and I see how many of my assumptions over the years have been inaccurate. And having seen all this, I realize there can never be one right way to do something as complex as raise a happy, healthy, good human being. 

Love your kids. Love yourself  Laugh. Ask for help. Give some thought to your decisions about their care. Try to see the forest for the trees. 

Those are my opinions. And if I didn't already believe every single parent I know was doing all of these things already, maybe I'd venture to offer them. 

The one opinion I have that I think parents need to hear is that if you have a lot of opinions on child rearing, you should probably keep them to yourself.

How I was born

Usually, I feel like I'm failing as a parent. I'm never as patient as I want to be. I'm talk before thinking too much. I don't listen enough. I never have enough time to spend quality time and drill times tables and play Barbies and teach how to tie shoes and cook with the kids and all that stuff.

Sometimes, though, I feel like maybe I'm doing something right. And when I stumble upon those moments, I try to savor them because I know another one won't pop up for a few more weeks.

Yesterday, Seconda was sitting at the kitchen counter eating a bowl os strawberries (check mark there for healthful snack) and watching My Little Pony on the iPad (X mark there for too much screen time). I was loading the dishwasher. The baby was sleeping and Primo was on a winter hike with his father.

"You get what you get and you don't get upset," Seconda said loudly. Emphatically. Then she looked up and asked me, "Do you want to know why i said that, Mommy?"

"Yes," I said. Usually she doesn't offer explanations and if I ask, she gets uber-annoyed.

"I said that because I really, really, really wish I had wings." She sighed, "But I know that this is the way God made me and the way you are born is how you stay. Until I go to heaven, and then, I will be a pegasus!"

I just stood there at the dishwasher, pretty much in awe of the child I'd created but can only take a tiny amount of credit for.

"That is a wonderful thing to tell yourself," I said, "And I think I'm going to tell myself the same thig the next time I feel disappointed or frustrated with the way I am or the way I look. Becaause I feel that way too, sometimes. Everyone does."

I was proud of her. And proud of myself, too, for doing at least something right the past six years.

Mommy Power Trip

If you want to annoy your big brother, nothing does the trick like bossing him around.

From Primo’s perspective, he already has one Mommy, and he doesn’t need another, particularly a four year-old one with no flexibility, patience or impulse control.

“OK, OK, Primo, we’ll find your Lego figure,” she assures him, “Just relax, OK, just take a deeeeeeep breath and reeeelaa-“

“STOP ACTING LIKE A GROWN-UP!” he yells.

“I know its annoying, Prim,” I say, “But the only alternative is her acting like a four year-old which is much worse.”

Sec is fond of using “Mommy” techniques to promote her own agenda. Her favorite is counting to three.

“Gimme a lick of that ice cream! PRIMO! GIMME A LICK OF THAT ICE CREAM! Do you HEAR me? I’m going to count to three and you better give me a lick of that ice cream cone, or you’re going to lose your dessert. One. Two . . . “

Its not how “1.2.3 Magic” suggests implanting the technique but, crazily enough, it works for Sec.

Primo sometimes gets on a Mommy power trip too, though he’s more apt to bargain, to incentivize rather than threaten:

“You want this shoe? OK, I will give you the shoe . . . If you play Harry Potter with me. Is that a deal?”

This, too, is surprisingly effective. In fact, I’ve noticed that the children’s imitations of my parenting techniques are more effective than my own implementation. Is that demoralizing or what?

Blessings

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Over the weekend my cousin gave a shot-out to my blog via her facebook status which read, “I’ll never have kids if I keep reading my cousin’s blog.” I thought this was great. In fact, I consider what the kids and I provide as a valuable service to my not-yet-parent friends. The effect of an afternoon with us is something akin to that of the Scared Straight program in which troubled teens get sent to juvi boot camp to get a taste of what life in the clink is really like. In the case of Scared Straight, the experience serves, one would hope, as a deterrent. In our case, it’s about managing expectations.

Since I was the very first of my friends to have kids (having two kids under 30 in Park Slope is basically babies having babies), I didn’t know what the hell I was doing or what the hell it would be like. I sort of thought the whole pregnancy and childbirth would be a cross between She’s Having a Baby and Nine Months and I guessed that when I had the kid, it would be like a Pampers commercial with some Full House thrown in. I am not an idiot. I just hadn’t spent time with people rearing young children. Well, let me qualify. I taught at day cares and summer camps and tutored kids and was an instructor at clown class. In fact, I’ve always sought out the small fries because they are smart and unsullied and inquisitive and open to joy. We understand each other. 

But –- spoiler alert -- teaching clown class is not the same as being a parent. I have been dwarfed by the sheer weight of the worry, the guilt, the pain I feel when they are ill or unhappy (pretty much a default setting at 2 and 4 years old). I have been ravaged by the sleeplessness which never seems to end, shocked and discouraged by the limitations of my patience and energy and generosity, enraged at how willing the kids are to bring me to my limits. I am often estranged from my husband. I blame him for things that aren’t his fault because there’s no one else to blame. To say parenting is hard is almost an insult. Driving a stick shift is hard. Parenting is impossible.

But, if you were to spend an afternoon with us, this wouldn’t be your takeaway. (Or at least, I hope not, for the sake of perpetuating the human species). Because you couldn’t help but discern, and quite powerfully, I think, that these children are a blessing which words cannot encompass. And I don’t mean “blessing” in the vague sense of something really cool or neat or nice. I mean, I get down on my old-before-their-time, broken-down knees and I thank God Almighty for the gift of these children, a gift I could never deserve.

My son told me last night that he loves me more than the sky. He called me into his room before he went to sleep and he said, “I am full of so much love, Mommy. I am so full of love, I love you more than the sky.” Then he went to sleep curled up in a ball with his blanket tangled around him and his sister slept in the crib beside him, with her wispy hair in her eyes and smelling of citrus, and both of their chests rose and fell, rose and fell and I actually thought I would have a heart attack if the good feeling didn’t dissipate. So much love, indeed.

So to all the non-parents out there, let me dissuade you from believing people like my cousin’s friends who replied to her facebook post, “OH NO! Don’t listen to her! Having kids is great! We travel, we go out ouce a week, we have so much fun!!!!!!!!”

First of all, dear readers, never take the advice of anyone who uses more than one exclamation point, unless it is me quoting my children, or they are being sarcastic.

Here’s the point. Parenting is not “fun,” and you don’t “still” do anything the way you used to do it. But it has the very real possibly of bringing your life into Technicolor.

Before this adventure of motherhood, I had fun galore, I traveled a ton, I was a happy, fulfilled woman with a career and friends and a soul mate. But looking back, it feels like I was all in sepia. I have never laughed so hard, or cried so hard, or prayed so hard or felt so fully at peace. If that deters you from having kids, well, at least you’ve been fully informed.