Today: Yow! Thank you, Anonymous donor, for donating $10! You rock! Almost one-third there!
An Actual Entry:
I got desparate today and did some cleaning. I can tell it’s summer when I’m cleaning. Because I couldn’t actually go outdoors or anything. That would be “sporty.” I might accidentally get a tan.
I had some happy times outside during summer vacation–out in the street vandalizing things and playing kickball–but my best times were indoors, mutilating Barbies and mixing every beauty product in the house together in a big bucket. What would it be? A super-cleaning elixir? An explosion? Something that turned grey and smelled like old-lady perfume? Yes, the last one.
I also liked to rifle through my stepfather’s giant stack-o-porn. He had all the classic titles: Playboy, Penthouse, and Hustler. They stopped around 1985, I believe, which was two years before I got to them. I got caught with one of his mags about a year later, and he yelled at me for looking through his stuff. How did he find it? Yes, he was looking through my stuff.
Nothing says “trust” and “family” like regular room searches. Another thing to put on my list of things not to do to Frannie.
In Other News
We went to the zoo yesterday with one of Mr. Husband’s friends who is visting from out of town. He brought his six-month-old and we had a stroller-fabulous time. Frannie hopped out of hers and pushed the baby around for a while.
The baby was sleeping and the friend wanted to go into the Nocturnal House, which doesn’t allow strollers. I volunteered to sit with his baby while he went in. I think I got the better deal, since I got to watch the wildilfe (fat Pacifc Northwesterners) in their natural environment.
It was about four-thirty, which is a rough time for little ones who have missed their naps because of a long day at the zoo. Frannie was getting whiny and “I-don’t-want-to-walk-y” so I bribed her by tucking a handful of Reese’s Pieces into her overall pockets (oooh, bad mom) and she went happily into the Nocturnal House. Sometimes a little sugar at the end of the day can get you home safely.
As I was sitting there, this family walked by who had been following us all over the zoo. There was a dumpy, haggard mom with that cute bob and giant khaki shorts that they all have. She had a little boy who looked about five, and the twenty-seventh incarnation of Satan, who was a little boy of about three.
The little Satan-boy was sreaming and hollering at his mom, and the older brother was staring off into space with the classic “I’m in a sunny meadow” look. I could tell he’d lived through this scene a million times before. Poor older brother; he looked like he deserved better.
“I DON’T WANT TO! I DON’T WANT TO!” Repeat times a million. I was waiting for the mom to lose her shit, but she kept talking to him quietly and I couldn’t her what she was saying until they inched closer. He was hanging off of his mother’s legs and stroller so their progress was very slow. I found out his name was “Chance.”
“Now, Chance, I really don’t like the way you’re behaving right now. Can you please get into the stroller for Mommy? Pretty please?”
Chance would scream back at her and if she tried to move faster than inching, he would throw himself on the ground and she would stop again, and start boo-boo babytalking him again. “C’mon, honey, we can’t go in to the Nocturnal House today if you’re going to scream like that. Please get into the stroller.”
She kept explaining things to him over and over and the kid just wasn’t hearing her. I’ve seen it; they get to that point where they are just feral and you have to make a decision. You can be that kind of hardass mom who walks away, and expects her kids to keep up. Or, if they are really nuts, you can just pick them up and strap them in. It helps to say something (loudly and firmly) like, “We can talk after you have cooled off.”
There is never a reason to sock a kid, though I admit I find myself involuntarily forming choke-o hands now and then. That is when I must sit in my office and stare at the wall. Frannie knows to be quiet when I start doing my breathing exercises.
Yelling doesn’t really help either, although my loud ass usually yells once a day and then feels stupid. I get tired of saying things twelve times, you know?
But what is perfectly okay is waiting to have that quiet, rational conversation with all of the explanations until after little Chance has had a nap. It’s okay to be the leader. Frannie screams for a minute, but knows she has a bad cop mom who will follow through. Most of the time she follows me around the house lately and hugs my legs and tells me she loves me. She askes permission to do things and argues and I stand firm. She is a secure kid and it will never take me motherfucking forty-five minutes to reach the gate of the zoo from the Nocturnal House, thank god.
This is the thing about how I was raised: if I ever have kids, I’ll probably never hit them. But I’ll always want to.
I once had a live-in girlfriend who had a five year old daughter. It was one of those situations that kind of happens by accident
pee ess: that penis thing is really upsetting.
Was sort of funny when I loaded the page up today and had to hurriedly scroll the page down by jabbing at the Pg Dn button so that other people at my workplace wouldn’t happen to glance upon that picture. Even now, I have not scrolled all the way up and cannot read the top portion of your blog out of sheer fear that someone will see. You’re getting quite the kick out of this, aren’t you SJ? ;)
Here’s an idea for your blog-a-thon: Parenting tips. Or, a narrative of how you went from thinking you’d never make a good parent (if you did) to being a good parent.
Svarit: Sorry! I never said I was safe for work!
Scott-San: That is a fantastic idea! I will put it in the file.
More donations! Updates later!
There is so much about this post I want to comment on – you made concoctions too?? As a little girl I was convinced if I mixed the right amount of the right ingredients I could create a new kind of glue. My brother always ruined it when I succeeded: “Yeah, but you put glue in there too. I saw you.”
When I first had my three boys I tried that “will you…” and “please?” and boy did I learn fast. Never give them a choice, or if you do make both choices things you can live with. “You can walk up those stairs like a big boy or I can carry you like a baby.” “Which toy are you picking up first?”
Something tells me I’d really like you, I like your parenting style, I can relate. Those moms with their devil children and their giant khakis drive me insane. I live in a neighborhood full of them, and they are all so saintly and perfect I want to puke.
Pixel: Just remember, the saintly and perfect image of the khaki moms is just that. Underneath the image, life is a living hell.
SJ: I, too, yell more often than I would like, but sometimes 6 will listen to loud when they won’t listen to reasonable. The logical, hard-ass bad cop style does create security, because the kids know their limits without a doubt. It makes for a more fun life all around, I think.
Big T: Yes, yes, but every now and then it would be nice to know some of those mothers forget to brush their hair every now and then too.
I too yell sometimes too much, but I have three boys who are too often so loud they won’t hear me otherwise. I agree about the hard-ass style creating security. Consistency brings security – knowing mom will always do X when they do Y.
So regardless of how much my boys whine about “having to take a shower EVERY night” during the week I like to think they know I love them.
you seem to have caught onto the fine line theory- that’s what I call it- can’t be too hard, can’t be too soft. and better too hard, most times. little kids don’t know what they need. nothing stupider than a mom trying to reason with a tired and/or sugar-hopped under-11-year old. like pixel says, it’s all about the love.