You know that shelf you have, where the parenting books are? The ones with studies. The authors have letters after their names, and you trust them. They’ve done their research so that you don’t have to, and they’ve studied more children than you will ever see in your lifetime. Their systems work. You might have to try out a few different systems, though. Positive Discipline, tough love, Love & Logic. Maybe Attachment Parenting resonates with you. Maybe Dobson floats your boat because you believe a firm hand is the way to go. Dr. Sears really knows his shit.
Whatever you want to believe in your heart, there’s a study out there to back you up and someone with letters after their name to soothe you and there are about 4 thousand kids that have been in the studies to prove their theories. Seriously, kids are pretty universal. Developmentally, they all do basically the same shit at pretty much the same time. There’s very little mystery to them, and as long as we love and cherish them and make sure they know that and don’t fuck up our bond with them or you know, fucking traumatize them in some way, we’re good.
Right?
It’s still winter in most of the country. Go now, and look at the shelf. Take a pretty basket with you, and fill that basket with all those books, and carry that basket outside with a lighter, and light those motherfucking books on fire. Do you have marshmallows?
Those people don’t know your kids, can’t know your kids, and those books are written with only well adjusted, normal children in mind. They do not take into account mood disorders, neurological factors, spectrum diagnoses, or personality disorders or kids at risk for disorders. Nor do they address trauma victims, abuse victims or children from broken homes, survivors of parents who have died or food allergies. Or your kid, or yours or yours or yours. They do not address the PARENTS who may also be dealing with their OWN set of mood disorders, quirks, compulsions, and other factors which may royally fuck up a kid. No wonder this paragraph worked for me for 9 days and this sentence from the back of this book worked for me for six months in 1998 for a week and this book just flat out made me want to hunt down the author and have him move in with me for a week and have him work his 1-2-fucking three fucking magic on my heinous fucking plate throwing asshole of a child. Jesus.
This is me trying to be funny about something that’s the least funny thing that has ever happened: my realization that nothing I have ever believed about parenting is true, and that quite possibly every piece of advice I have ever given about parenting is wrong. And I’ve given a lot of it, because of almost everyone I know, I’ve got the oldest child. Here are just a few of the more broad little nuggets of wisdom I’ve been spreading around the world that have not produced the results we anticipated, and therefore I feel like I should warn you off of them:
- As long as you provide love and attention and stability, you are OK. Even if you flounder some on your methods, loving kindness prevails, no matter what. And if for some reason YOU aren’t able to provide constant and consistent emotional stability, make sure you surround yourself with people who can. Family, therapists, friends and what have you.
- Don’t hit. Hitting just teaches them to get better at doing wrong things and later, to hit people and animals.
- (and it doesn’t feel like loving kindness to a little kid.)
- Never leave, never quit. Abandonment can’t heal.
- Teach them to question authority.
- Because I told you so is a bad answer. Try to explain as often as you can.
- They are equal members of your family! Treat them as members in the cooperative and they will respect that responsibility, and you.
- But most of all, love is really ALL YOU NEED because as long as you are coming from a PLACE OF LOVING KINDNESS, whatever you are doing WILL WORK. You can’t royally fuck up a child by parenting with loving kindness. It’s just not possible.
It’s a beautiful night for a bonfire. This is the last post in this blog that will ever contain a word of advice about parenting.
You may be interested in these related posts:I guess I should be flattered that my husband’s been reading my blog and retaining the information; in a fight just now he flung at me “Oh yeah! Let’s deal in absolutes!”
I swear sometimes I compromise.
I see the ebb and the flow of our lives as a constant exercise in compromise. We came home to red state and a town full of people completely at odds with us in pretty much every way. I knew that coming in because that suffocating blanket of fundamental conservatism is why I left. As I got older I convinced myself that we could subvert the culture from home, like my parents did for me.
We left culture and diversity when we came here. It feels like we traded political action and food and all kinds of things we were attatched to for affordable housing, a large family, and the opportunity for me to be home with the kids while they were young. We believe the trade-off was worth it, mostly.
When my fifth grader asked my “what’s a Dyke?” because that’s what the kids called her when she made her own Valentine’s Day cards, and when she told me the teacher made them pray before lunch at their party, I knew we were in for some controversy. That year, my husband’s first year as a teacher, I kept my mouth shut even though her school was violating the law. Later, the gloves came off. She’s on the wrestling team, too.
My family stopped asking us to attend chuch after the first couple of years but out of courtesy I still hold hands when they sing the blessing at holiday dinners, and no one’s hands get burned when I do. That’s probably because I was once in the fold, and rumor has it once Jesus is in your heart he’s pretty hard to eradicate. I decided pretty quickly that church wasn’t for me because the dress code was whack and I refused to believe that my parents were going to hell. Oh yeah, and hell isn’t a place and the devil isn’t real. I was raised in a home of tolerance and respect though, so I left quietly and at family dinners I don’ t laugh when my relatives think they’re thanking an actual being for the food they eat.
Kindergarten is a different animal from the story time and crayons and wooden blocks of my 5th year. I love being married to a teacher, because now I don’t feel guilty for not participating in the parental conditioning. He reads all the papers. And I just put my earmuffs on when I hear about how they get punished or rewarded for lining up (like good little soldiers) or sitting quietly at their desks. Luckily we drew one of the teachers that doesn’t sing or read about Jesus in the classroom.
I know my 5-year old is exposed to other…forces outside my control. Children of the fundies. Kids that get out of the trucks with the confederate flags. Children that hear the N word at dinner. They play together at recess, because my daughter wasn’t raised to fear and avoid these kids, and at such a young age these little soldiers in God’s army don’t know yet that they’re not supposed to like her. We’re sure we can undo whatever is done to our kids during the school day. We can re-educate them. De-brief them. This might be a good time to mention that the superintendent of schools in this county does not believe in evolution.
So, I tried to keep my face neutral this morning when Avery told me about how her friend (I’ll call her B. Isn’t that a convenient letter for her name to begin with? B? B stands for B….eautiful Bouncing Buttercup!) has been chatting with her about Satan. Avery knows that we don’t believe in the Devil but Bai-I mean B has warned Avery that the Devil will be coming for her mom and dad.
My voice was friendly when I asked my daughter to pass the message along to our friend Beautiful Bouncing Buttercup that she should tell her mother that I would like to speak with her as soon as possible and may we have her phone number please. And now I would like to write a short open letter to my readers with small children who are being taught to spread your fundamental vitriol on the playground:
Just as my children hear and mimic my foul language, your children hear and mimic the parables in your book except they think that it’s real because you think that this monster is a real thing and they bring that hateful monster to the playground. They threaten children who are not familiar with your monster, with in this case, images of the devil coming for a 5 year old’s parents. Because that is what your religion has taught your children: that if I don’t believe your book, that the devil will come for me- has come for me- that the devil has already got me, because I don’t believe your book. Please corral your children, and I will ask that my children don’t teach your children to say Jesus Fucking Christ when they stub their toe. Thank you ever so much.
*I know that I have readers who are Christian, and please know that I’m not disparaging your faith in this post. What I’m angry about is the frightening all or nothing imagery attached to it, and that children are threatening parents with a monster they’ve learned about in church, a place where supposedly people are taught to act Christ-Like.
You may be interested in these related posts:My first mistake might have been using TV friendships as guides for how to measure my own behavior in relationships. As an only child, a weird child, and then a troubled, addicted adolescent/young adult, I was already crippled in the area of frienships when motherhood dealt me the triple death blow of isolation, fatigue, and the inability to carry on a conversation about anything other than children.
Grey’s Anatomy makes me unreasonably sad because I don’t understand how Christina, who is just as unemotional and misanthropic as I am, can climb in bed and be affectionate with Meredith because I can’t do that. And also, how come they can have such HUGE fights and still be friends because if someone I was friends with almost cost me my job they would simply not be my friend anymore, and that would be it. I mean wtf. I’m trying to think of a more realistic show but I can’t right now. But trust me I’m ALWAYS on the lookout for examples I can follow because in this way I’m like Dexter. I need examples to follow because I do not know how to behave. Remember when I had a fight with my brother and my dad and I thought we were going to have to move? And then two days later my brother came up and apologized and said he was sorry and we hugged it out. It NEVER OCCURED TO ME that this could happen-that scenario never crossed my mind. It’s as if something in there is broken.
Motherhood didn’t do THAT to me, of course, I have always been into the absolutes; but there is not room for the absolute in motherhood. Motherhood requires ultimate flexibility, right? The job requires us to adapt moment by moment to any number of scenarios in a given day. Because I thrive on crisis, motherhood suits me in this way, the challenge of putting out the fire. But, paradoxically the constant requirement of flexibility of my person is unnerving-almost impossible for me to maintain.
So in friendships+motherhood then does the same rule apply? No room for the absolute? Is that true for friendships in general? For relationships in general?
*I feel like I’m Data on Star Trek asking for insight into the human mind. No really, I’m really asking.
Tags: friendship, motherhood
You may be interested in these related posts:Allright, I confess: I used to schedule my morning in 5 minute blocks. And it worked. Oh my god I was so productive. (Qualifier: This was when I had one child, who was 8 and in school.) I had it down to the order in which I did my bathroom routine; it had to be like that. I can’t remember whether I stuck to it better when I was manic or depressed or sane, but there would be a point where the system would break down and I’d find myself saying “I am not a routine person. routines are stupid. we are not that kind of family” Except, I need to be that kind of person, says the mental health field, who think daily routines can lessen the frequency of bipolar mood swings.
My son asked last night what day it was. Thursday, I said. “It’s not Sunday?” No, Thursday. “So Papa’s not coming today?” He already, at almost 3, knows that on Sunday is when Papa comes to pick him up for breakfast. Routines. The life skill I love to hate to learn. The word tastes like burning on my tongue. Except I’m not saying it, I’m thinking it and it still tastes like burning. Ick.
And yet. Routine. Routine will save you when you cannot think. The dinner list will bail you out when there’s a blank spot in your head and it’s six o’clock. It’s Tuesday. That means breakfast for dinner. We always have eggs and bread. My old pal google calendar will remind me to put the laundry in the dryer when the only thing on my mind is nothing, and I don’t realize that I’ve been looking at the cursor for an hour. Thursday: dinner in the crockpot, says Dinner List. Should be easy. Written mail day. FUCK. Christmas thank you note day. Which I blow off, as I’ve done every week since Christmas, because I AM NOT A ROUTINE KIND OF PERSON.
And so routine hasn’t been saving me, and my in-laws haven’t got their thank you notes even though their gifts were amazing. And my husband’s been putting dinner together every night since October when I lost my appetite, and errand day is whenever we need something, and I brush my hair like every 3 days.
I have a day like today every once in a while that looks pretty good, where a lot of laundry gets done, and the dishwasher is run and my dad delivers espresso. (which explains the first bit) And I start to roll that word around my mouth a little: routine. I think about where I would post my lists, (because there would be multiples) and how they would save me; how I would never go so far off the rails again. I’d be running, I’d be eating, I’d be doing housework. There wouldn’t be times on the lists like back when I just had one kid because you have to allow for unscheduled play and compelling facebook links-but I’d get it all done, I’m sure of it. The word’s starting to taste a little better now. A little like…chocolate.
You may be interested in these related posts:My husband says maybe we should restrict our Samaritan work to donations to large organizations because you need the buffer. You know, the buffer between yourself and the people you help. That way, you don’t see what they do with your money, or your gift, or your donation of whatever.
I think that’s where people are coming from with this ludicrous push to have welfare recipients tested for drugs, even though welfare takes up a miniscule portion of the budget and the implementation of a program like that would be more expensive than it’s worth. Not to mention unconstitutional.
But I didn’t come here to talk about that-I came to talk about the homeless people who until today were living in my yard and are now living in my brother’s yard. Like RIGHT in his yard. When he looks out his living room window, they’re 6 feet away. Can we just take a moment to give my brother mad respect because he’s really taking one for the team with this. He’s only home 2 days a week right now and his place has more permanent hookups, so we had to move them. Since they’ll be staying a while.
The thing is that this is an incredibly deep learning experience for me in terms of boundaries, and how deep my generosity goes, and judgments, and all kinds of issues that I never considered when we first offered up the motor home to this family. For instance, I learned that while I willingly share my washing machine and my shower and my hot water and dishwasher, I’m having a hard time being a socialist about my internet connection, which is struggling under the heavy bandwidth of two teenagers and xbox live. (no, in case you’re wondering, I don’t consider myself a socialist)
Wouldn’t it be so neat and tidy if we always got to help people just like us? And then they would just accept exactly the help we offered, take all the advice we gave them, which of course would lead them down exactly the right path, and then they’d dig right out of the hole they’re in and before they knew it they’d be back on track.
I hear this a lot: “these people (I guess they mean poor people?) have the same opportunities as everyone else. They can just go get a job and make their way like everyone else has to” and I am here to tell you that this is just not true for everyone, and what I’ve wondered late on sleepless nights lately is what is society’s responsibility to the people who cannot scrape by, now that the economy is collapsing around us? Who cares for them, the people who can’t come home to family like we did?(for the record, the mom in this family does have a part time job. They are unable to find affordable housing)
When I ask my husband that question he gestures toward the front yard.
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