Tag Archives: wtf

Self Analysis: I Come Here for Free Therapy

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I want to break a few destructive cycles I’ve got going on:

  1. The Yell/Guilt cycle
  2. The Self-Pity/Guilt cycle
  3. The Checked-Out Parent/Guilt cycle

Namely, I need to get rid of guilt. But I’m Jewish. It’s part of our genetic and cultural make-up. Then again, if I abolish guilt, I’m just left with yelling, self-pity, and checked-out parenting. Hmm. That doesn’t sound right.

I want to have a no-yelling, happy, active parenting life. I could totally accomplish this if it weren’t for the kids! Huh. That doesn’t seem right either.

Conclusions:

  1. My destructive cycles are actually good because the guilt is a break from yelling, self-pity and checking out;
  2. My children are actually the obstacle to me being a great parent. I’d be excellent were it not for them;
  3. Turns out, I don’t have to change a thing. Just wait another 16 years until S graduates from high school and moves out.

Thanks for the free therapy. I’m feeling better now.

Motherhood: A Horrible Carnival Ride

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The absolute worst and hardest part of parenting is the emotional toll it takes. For me, it’s a constant roller coaster and I just want to get off; I don’t like roller coasters. I’m tired of all of the negative feelings – frustration, anger, embarrassment, self-pity, guilt, recrimination. These all center around L and I’m certain that not everyone has to go to such extremes.

If I had two kids like S, life would be good. I’d have it so easy. I’d deal with “normal” child issues like crankiness, hunger, frustration, boredom. But they’d all be low on the Richter scale. L is a huge earthquake. He is more than I bargained for. It feels unfair. Why am I the mom who constantly has to physically drag her 40 pound child up the stairs for a time-out? Why do I have to break a sweat just to get through the process of putting him to bed? I made the same choices as another mom who only has easy kids. Why did I get such a hard one? <——-This paragraph is all about self-pity.

Next comes guilt. So many people have real problems to deal with. Sick children. Children who can’t feed themselves, will never walk, will not live to see adulthood. Those parents would give anything to trade their problems with mine. I have a perfectly healthy little boy.  <——I’m very good at guilt.

Next up, recrimination: I shouldn’t feel this way. L clearly is struggling with controlling his larger-than-life emotions coupled with his ridiculously high energy. My job is to help him not resent him. If I were a softer landing-place for him, he’d probably thrive. I am not a good enough mother for him.

The truth is, L is exactly the child I deserve. I was not an easy kid. I was outspoken and hated how little control I had over my life. I longed to be an adult. Anyone who has known me for any length of time knows that I have had a huge problem dealing with authority. I do did not like being told what to do, where to be, how to act. And, unfortunately, I felt it was perfectly within my rights to say so. This got me into more than my share of trouble.

I should be able to understand L and know what he needs because I went through such similar feelings as a kid, right? Somehow, it’s not working out that way. What thing did I need to hear from my parents or teachers to help me accept their authority and my place as a subordinate? I think the answer is probably “nothing.” Childhood was just something I had to wait out. I wouldn’t go back for anything. I do like being an adult and in control of my life. Now that I am the authority figure, I don’t think authority is so bad.

So we know where L gets his audacity and stubbornness from. But that energy? That’s not mine. That’s beyond what I can even tolerate. It’s like being on a racquetball court with balls bouncing all around everywhere. All I can do is duck, cover, and wait for it to be over while I’m pummeled all day. The energy is from T. But he didn’t have the defiance to go along with it. It’s the combo that’s a killer.

So I guess this means that I just need to duck and cover for another 20 years or so and then L will come into his own. I see right where this revelation is leading me. Straight back to self-pity as my roller coaster begins its slow ascent again.

Please let me off. I’m feeling a bit sick and dizzy.

Kids Say the Darnedest Things

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We all know that kids parrot what they hear. So if you swear, be prepared for embarrassing situations with your toddler. If you say mean things about relatives, your spouse, or your boss, be ready for those things to come right out of your child’s mouth at the most inopportune times.

When you have more than one child, the younger one doesn’t just have you to learn bad things from. This is a problem. Sometimes S says things in public that I’m certain people assume I say in private. But I don’t. She’s learned them from L.

For example:

One of S’s favorite things to say to me when she’s mad is, “When we get home, I’m going to hit you!”

This totally sounds like something a parent might say to a child in a moment of teeth-clenched public rage. But I never said it! I do plenty of bad things as a mom, but I don’t hit my kids. Or threaten to hit them. (I have pinched though.)

This is something she’s learned from L. He says things like this to her all the time. Because he’s a menacing jerk. But he doesn’t usually follow through. He just likes to make her scared and cry. (See previous menacing jerk comment.)

How can I make it known that I did not say this to her? I feel like I need a t-shirt that says, “Please excuse my daughter. She has a bad big brother.”

 

WTF Tapas

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S rolled off of a chair to the floor and started crying.

me: Did you hurt yourself?

S: (sobs and nods)

me: Where did you get hurt?

S: (through tears, pointing) Over there on the floor.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………….

In the car:

S: I don’t feel good.

me: What feels bad?

S: My eyes feel very cold.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

I think my son is a burgeoning psychopath. He’s disturbingly interested in violence. Actual conversation between my children in the car:

L: When I get home later I’m going to hit you.

S: No!

L: Would you rather I pinch you?

S: No!

L: It’s your choice. I can pinch you or hit you. Which do you want?

S: Hit me.

L: OK. With my hand or with this water bottle?

S: With your hand.

WTF? The entire time I was saying “L, stop it!” and “S, don’t answer that!” to no avail. What is wrong with him? And worse, why would she make the choice?

…………………………………………………………………………………………

Conversation I’ve had with S, more than once:

me: I love you.

S: I love you too.

me: (heart melts)

S: You are my mommy.

me: You are my daughter.

S: You are my daughter too.

…………………………………………………………………………………….

PDF: Public Display of Failure

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The Scene: the lobby of the dance school where L takes his acrobat class

The cast: me, L, approximately 20 other parents and maybe 10 other children

The situation: L doesn’t want to go into his class

The time: 4:30 PM

The scene unfolds in nightmarish fashion. The sounds are too loud, echoing off of the high ceilings and hard floors. L has made his case and now stands an the other end of a long row of seats, all of which are occupied by onlookers. His thumbs are in his ears; his fingers wiggle at me tauntingly; his tongue is out.

I step to the right. He counters with a step to the left. I move left. He moves right. This is a stand-off. This is a stand-off with an audience.

This is what I hate most.

He is loving this. He’s pushing is favorite button. He’s laughing. He’s laughing at my impotence.

“L, you come here right now, please. This is not OK.” I try my most serious tone of voice. One that tells these other parents that I DO NOT take this kind of blatant disrespect lightly. One that tells L that when we are alone I might just strangle him.

“Haha!” He taunts back in a tone that lets the other parents know that he runs the show. A tone that lets me know that he does not give a flying crap about what I think, say, or do.

I will not run after him and give him the gratification of a chase with an audience. I edge to my right, he to his left, soon we are facing each other across the depth of a chair rather than the length of the row. I growl quietly, “If you do not get into that classroom immediately, you will not get any Chinese food tonight.” Thankfully that works.

I am left mortified. At a loss. I’ve never seen anyone else’s child do something like this, which leads me to believe that some part of L is broken. Some part that makes him inherently respect and fear me. How can he be so brazen?

45 minutes into his hour-long class his teacher comes out with L in tow. “Sorry, I just can’t keep him in there anymore. He refuses to practice the routine and he’s running around and tripping the other kids.”

OMG. He’s a monster.

Again, I’m in front of this audience. “You did WHAT? Sit down right there until you’re ready to be nice.” I plan on ignoring him. I want him to sit for the next 15 minutes until he can apologize to the teacher when the class is over. He breaks down into tears. Big, sobbing tears.

“I hate myself. I always get in trouble at school and here too. I’m just so starving. Please take me home for dinner. I’m so so hungry.” He tries to wrap himself up in my arms.

Damn. He did complain about being hungry before class. I didn’t pack him the greatest lunch today. He probably is really hungry. He hates himself? A piece of my heart breaks.

“You don’t always get into trouble. Your teachers always tell me how good you are at school, and this is the first time you’ve ever gotten into trouble here. But what you did is not OK.” My arms are now around him, despite myself.

“Please, please take me home. I’m just so hungry.”

I took him home. I fed him dinner which he ate with gusto and zeal. 3 servings. He was hungry. I told him that his behavior was not acceptable, no matter how hungry he was. I relayed the whole story to T, including how disappointed I was. More tears.

What am I doing wrong? I feel like I’m not a pushover, but maybe I am? Maybe I shouldn’t have given in, made him sit there for 15 minutes? At the time I felt like punishment wasn’t what he needed. What he needed was dinner. I try to balance being tough on him with being empathetic and caring. But I must have something off for him to challenge me the way he did. Right?

I feel like I’ve tried everything. I feel like I’ve said that I’m at my wit’s end a thousand times. I am so tired of having to live out scenes like yesterday’s on the public stage.

 

My Public Service Announcements

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In case you don’t have an internet IV running through your veins 24/7 like some people I know, ahem, you may not have heard of Blinkbooks. These are short, visual brain candies covering a variety of topics from fashion to children’s stories to humor. I’ve been lucky enough to write several of these and I thought I’d share a couple I’m particularly fond of.

First up is a warning for parents of girls:

Naturally, I needed to warn parents of boys as well:

Next I was inspired by Honest Mom‘s admission that she sees cute babies and her ovaries start stabbing her better sense and judgement. I know this feeling and think it’s important to remind people everywhere what it’s really like to have a baby:

So these are what public service announcements look like when they come from Motherhood, WTF? You’re welcome.

Classified Ad

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Free to good home: One 5-year-old boy

  • House trained (with regards to potty, but might destroy your furniture);
  • Needs space to run daily;
  • Not recommended for apartment living as your neighbors will complain about the noise;
  • You will save on a lifetime’s worth of alarm clocks!
  • Eats everything (just not when you want him to);
  • Plays well with others (some of the time);
  • Excellent with the elderly and with babies;
  • Provides endless blog fodder.

Act NOW and we’ll include, as a limited time offer:

  • A life-time supply of Advil to help with any headaches you may encounter;
  • A prescription for Xanax;
  • A case of wine;
  • His pockets will come stuffed full of $20′s!

It’s 11:40 AM and I’m tempted to keep L up in his room until T comes home tonight at 5:30. The last couple of days he’s been astonishingly rude and obnoxious, culminating in a playdate (with a little girl he loves) where he told her he wished she would die, that he never wants to play with her, etc. I drove 25 minutes to a park that we spent 10 minutes in before I had to drag him out. Poor S was so happy at the park. Poor me was looking forward to having actual conversation with another mom.

He told me I’m the meanest mother. He told me I’m the worst mother in the world. Truth is, maybe I am? I must be to have raised this child.

He’s been doing so well lately. I thought we turned a corner. Is he never going to get easier?

I don’t know how to just move on and face the rest of the day with him. I feel so angry and disappointed and frustrated. I don’t think I have it in me to play with him any time soon. How long is too long to punish a kid for being a colossal jerk? Me disliking him seems like the only natural consequence, but that can’t be what I’m supposed to do.

Somehow I’m meant to compartmentalize things. I’m meant to not take things personally. I’m meant to not feel emotional responses to his outbursts. Who can do any of that? Are we supposed to magically become automatons when we have children? I’m a person and when I’m not treated well, when I’m embarrassed, or ashamed, or frustrated I feel it. I don’t know how to turn that off.

Winning Parenting Moments

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We all have those moments. (Don’t we??) You know, the times when you’re glad you’re not overheard or observed because you absolutely suck as a parent. Being the mom who makes you feel better about your parenting, I can assure you that I have lots of these moments. Here are a couple from just the last week:

me: L, you choose how to behave. Think about what you’re about to do. Think about your choices. (<—- Good parenting)

L: No! YOU think about YOUR choices! (<—- Bad child)

me: Trust me, I am. Right now I’m thinking about my choice to have kids! (<— Bad parenting)

Yup, that’s right. In a moment of anger I told my 5-year-old that I’m rethinking things, and in retrospect, I think that maybe I won’t go off the pill after all. Instead, I choose to be thin, well-rested and rich. I wiggled my nose but nothing happened.

I’m not the only crappy parent in my house. Here’s one for the menfolk:

L: (bouncing a ball in the house after being told not to) See? I didn’t break anything, so HA! (<—- Obnoxious child)

T: If you bounce that ball in here again you will have to sleep outside for the rest of your life. (<—- Bad parenting)

There’s something about one’s own children that can bring a person to his/her worst self in a matter of seconds. I can be a totally happy, reasonable grown-up one minute and with the smallest of efforts, one of my kids can transform me into my 3-year-old self. I’ve stomped feet. I’ve cried. I’ve yelled. I’ve threatened ridiculous things that no one believes.

How do they do it? Why are they so freaking good at it?

As an adult I have a multitude of jobs and responsibilities, some I’m pretty good at, some passable, and some not so good. As kids, my children only have one job: to find our buttons and push them. It’s all they work on day and night and they are brilliant at it. Truly, they have extraordinary innate talent and unflappable dedication to practicing their craft and sharpening their knives skills. I can try to keep a poker face, even succeed once in a while, but eventually they will get to me. They win every.single.time. Each win strengthens their resolve and their little hearts get just a little blacker.

So, if you don’t think your sweet little children have evil in their hearts, if you haven’t threatened to turn them out of your home forever, and if you haven’t tried to use witchcraft to make it all disappear, then you are doing better than at least one other mother. Congratulations.

Imaginative or Just Nuts?

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I’ve decided that imagination is nothing more than a euphemism for freaking crazy. As parents we want our kids to be as crazy as possible, and then suddenly, when they become adults, we want them to stop being crazy. Crazy to the core, right now my kids are obsessed with magic balls.

These balls are invisible, naturally, and magical. They are apparently great fun to play with, but get lost easily. As they are siblings and therefore able to fight about anything, my kids have come to blows and melted down into tears over these balls. How do you referee a fight where one kid takes and hides the other’s magic ball without destroying the crazy imagination we’re trying to foster? What about helping a child recover a lost magic ball?

The other night L had a complete breakdown. I’m talking a good half hour of sobbing despondence over a lost magic ball. Apparently S snatched it out of his hand and threw it aside. We all know that objects she throws go in any direction except the expected direction, so there was no telling where the magic ball may have landed and rolled to. I tried to tempt him with a new magic ball that I happened to have in my pocket. (I’m always prepared.) This would not do. He wanted his magic ball.

It was not until the next time we encountered the problem of lost magic balls that I came up with an infallible solution. Magic balls, in case you didn’t know, always return to their owner if said owner sings a song. The tune doesn’t matter, but the words need to roughly be “magic ball, magic ball, come back to me, come back to me…” 

I now have videos of both kids walking around the lawn singing individual variations of this song and happily reuniting with their errant magic balls. I told you they were crazy.

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Not What I Meant

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Recently I was out and about with L while he was in one of his devilish good moods. Ever the charmer, this means he’s hugging babies and chatting up their moms. One of these moms fell for the act hook, line, and sinker. She said to me: “He’s so good-looking! You’re going to be in big trouble!”

This is where I should have said something along the lines of, “Yeah, thanks, I know…” Instead, I took the opportunity to make myself look like a complete ass. I said, “I guess it’s better to have a son be super good-looking than a daughter.” (WTF?) To this she said, “But don’t you also have a daughter?”

I have just effectively said that I think my son is attractive, but I don’t have that “problem” with my daughter. What’s the most graceful way to back out of this? I’m not sure, but I can tell you that it’s not like this:

“I don’t mean that my daughter is ugly. She’s uh, you know, normal. Cute. He’s just… I mean, I love my daughter. I think she’s great. She’s not bad to look at. I like to look at her. I don’t sit around staring at her…”

I went on in this vein for some time until I noticed that the mom had dismissed me entirely and was back to being enamored with L.

I have no moral to this story. I’d just like to officially take this opportunity to say: that’s not what I meant! I really should not be allowed to speak to people.

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