i suck as a parent navigating motherhood one day at a time

According to the Mayans I only have 11 months and 21 days to become a better parent. So, in my quest for rapid improvement I have created a list to guide me. This is not a vague list of resolutions to become a better parent in 2012. “Be a better parent” always makes my list, but I usually manage to break my resolve by about 3:00 pm on January 1st. It got me thinking that I probably need a more concrete plan in order to accomplish my over-reaching goal of not sucking as a parent by December 21. Maybe this year I’ll make it to January 2nd.

1. I resolve to just say “Thank you” when my kids do something I ask them to do and not follow that with”…but if you had just done it when I asked the first time we wouldn’t have had a fight.”
2. I resolve to let the kids work out their own fights and only intervene when one of them grabs a hockey stick or heads for the baseball equipment bag.
3. I resolve to not ask my 15-year-old how his test went the minute he gets in the car after school (I will wait at least 60 minutes).
4. I resolve not to buy frozen Taquitos, (or chips or candy) and then complain to my 11-year-old that frozen cheese and a smattering of beans is not a sufficient snack (Then why did I buy them??!)
5. I resolve to not roll my eyes when my kids launch into a discussion of the “cool kill” they had on Call of Duty (or Skyrim or Halo) although I can’t agree to stop wanting to kill myself from boredom.
6. I resolve to actually pull the plug on the video game they are playing when I tell them their time is up and not just threaten to do it over and over and over again (Me: “Ok, that is really the last five minutes you can play. No, really this time I mean it.” Kids: “OK Mom” wink, wink)
7. I resolve to let my 11-year-old wear sports pants or basketball shorts to school at least once a week and not tell him that he looks like a bum as he walks out the door (even though I will be cringing inside).
8. I resolve to not grip the edge of my seat so tightly when my 15-year-old is driving.
9. I resolve to let my children finish whatever argument they have formulated to discount my “because I said so,” response to their requests (even if I have no intention of actually giving in and buying an air soft gun, a lizard, a new car, etc.).
10. I resolve to look for the good behavior, not just the bad, and, yes, I’m talking about my behavior, too.

Happy New Year!

“What the fuck!” I blurted out in front of my 15-year-old. “I told you to stop screwing around and start your fucking homework.”

Shit, I swore…out loud.

There were plenty of times when I have sworn at my kids in my mind – the way a character on a sitcom flashes to an alternate reality that shows what she would like to be doing instead of what she is actually doing. And of course, there have been the handful of times when I flipped my kids off after they left the room (yes, I’ve been mad enough to flip my kids off behind their backs). This time, however, I had lost all control of my mothering instincts and it slipped out.

I grew up in a house where my parents didn’t swear…at least not in English. It took me a while to learn the Greek swear words that were bandied about but even those were few and far between. When my mom threw out a swear word in English though, I knew I had gone too far.

I thought that maybe this is what happened here. My son certainly looked taken aback. I figured he would realize that he better buckle down and start his homework because I was really mad. Instead, he looked at me and said, “Really Mom? Is that appropriate?” And turned back to his computer.

Apparently swearing had lost it’s shock value.

Swearing has taken over our house a bit lately. Try as I may, my kids have adopted a “swear now, deal with the consequences later” mentality. I hear them swearing at their video games and computer screens, swearing at each other and swearing at their friends in that friendly “everyone calls their friends a dick, mom!” sort of way.

It makes me cringe.

I’ve explained that swearing is the mark of the unintelligent. “There are better words to express yourself,” I’ve said, and yet, here I was, whipping out the “F” word – not once but twice.

I remember when we first had our oldest, I swore (no pun intended) that I would never swear in front of him. I didn’t want anyone else to swear in front of him either. When my brothers-in-law said “shit” in front of him, I was so upset; not so upset, however, that I didn’t notice the big grin forming on my son’s face. I should have known then that I would be fighting a losing battle eventually.

Swearing started slowly in our house. A few “damns” here; a few “craps” there. My kids refused to believe that those counted as swear words and eventually I stopped challenging them. Then our oldest branched into the occasional “shit” followed by an “oops, sorry mom” and a sly grin. Again, I swooped in every time with a punishment or a dressing down but he knew he would wear me down eventually and I would stop calling him out on the use of the word.

Our youngest is not nearly as brazen. Sure, he swears at his brother when I’m not around (his brother makes sure to tell me what he said) but I’ve told my kids that if I don’t hear the word I can’t punish the offender.

I really knew that I had lost the cause when my youngest said, in front of me, the other day, “He is such a D-I-C-K”. At least he spelled it out.

Lately we’ve been trying a swear jar – it started with us charging the offenders $0.25 per swear word. It’s now up to $5.00. By the time our oldest graduates from college I think he’s going to owe us his first year’s paycheck.

As for my offenses, yes, I kicked in my $10.00 and I vowed to stop swearing…at least in English. I swear!

I was at a discussion yesterday where one woman suggested that if your kid doesn’t share at an early age it’s a sign of sociopathic behavior. She cited a recent Wall Street Journal article with a headline that asked a seemingly innocuous question: “Does Your Kid Have the Sharing Gene?” I, like any concerned parent would, ran home to see if my child was destined to be the next Ted Kaczynski.

Alas, the article didn’t say anything about sociopathic behavior. In fact, it didn’t say much at all, other than to tell us that some kids have a gene that lets them share and some kids don’t. (Apparently, the kids who don’t have the gene have parents who refused to share that DNA). More importantly, the study that was cited does not tell us whether kids who share will have more fulfilling lives or ultimately feel like they got gypped.

Don’t get me wrong; sharing is a good thing, if it’s done for the right reasons. But not all acts of generosity are the result of truly altruistic behavior and not all seemingly selfish acts are done because the person lacks a gene that makes them want to share/donate/volunteer to save the world.

My 11-year-old falls into the latter category. He wants to share/donate/volunteer to save the world but he never wanted to share his toys at the park. “Mine!” was something I heard a lot. And I was more than ok with it.

Probably because my older son was way too generous with his toys – and not just because we told him he was supposed to share. He would share because he thought it was the right thing to do. But after watching him give up whatever he was playing with just because someone asked him to, I decided to teach him a new lesson.

Needless to say it didn’t work.

I remember it like it was yesterday…

We were at the park for our daily digging in the sandbox session: my then three-year-old with his little yellow shovel, me with my book. A little boy, about the same age as my son, approached him and asked to have the shovel. My son, always eager to please, was handing over the shovel when I intervened.

“He’s using it right now,” I sweetly explained to the little boy.

“But I want him to share,” the little boy responded.

“Maybe when he’s done with it,” I said. “But you can bring your toys over here and play with him.”

Now, I added the last part because I knew the kid didn’t bring any toys and because sharing, to me, is inherently reciprocal. In other words, you show us yours kid and we’ll show you ours. Off he went.

Shortly after this exchange, the little boy returned with his mommy in tow – not what I expected him to want to share but hey, maybe he was tired of playing with her and thought the shovel looked like a good exchange. Unfortunately, he wasn’t trading her; he just brought her along to argue his case.

“My son would like to share your son’s shovel,” she said to me.

“But, he is using it right now,” I explained even though it was quite obvious that he was still in the process of digging to middle earth. “Your son is welcome to play here and have the shovel when we are done with it,” I added.

“Your son should really share,” she added indignantly.

At this point, my son could see what was coming. Even at three he knew the look on my face did not mean everyone was going to leave the park happy.

He really wanted to give his shovel away now.

“Give me your book,” I said to the woman pointing to the novel tucked under her arm.

She looked at me as if I had just crawled out of middle earth. “My book?” she asked.

“Yes, your book,” I said. “I want to share your book. Now.”

“That’s different,” she said. “I’m reading it and it’s not a toy that is meant to be shared, it’s a book.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I told her. “Both toys and books are meant for enjoyment and I want to enjoy your book now just like your son wants to enjoy my son’s shovel now.”

She knew she was not going to get anywhere with this argument so she stomped off, probably to explain to her son that he should never act like the crazy lady with the selfish kid.

My kid, on the other hand, got a whole different lecture. Although I’m sure I told him not to act like the crazy lady who wouldn’t share her book, I do remember telling him that he does not have to give away his toys just because someone wants it; he should give up his toy only when he is done with it and no longer needs it.

This is what he probably heard: slip the kid the toy while your mom isn’t looking.

©2011 by Connie Lissner. All rights reserved.

originally posted on 10/27/11 at acontrolledsubstance.com

It all started with bacon.

I decided to add some crumbled bacon to the salad I was making for dinner, the one that would accompany the barbecue salmon and homemade corn bread, but I only cooked six slices of bacon.

Apparently, that wasn’t enough.

In my defense (which I argued to my family) I cooked six slices even though I only planned to crumble two into the salad. There were still four slices left for the kids and my husband to grab. The only problem was that my oldest son and my husband got there first, leaving only a half of a slice for my 11-year-old.

Hence, not enough bacon.

Still smarting from the lack of pork, my 11-year-old headed to the refrigerator. Crap, I think, I forgot the milk.

“You forgot the milk,” my 11-year old said while staring into the refrigerator. “Bad mommy,” he said with a smile as he turned to pour himself some water. “Yeah, bad mommy,” my husband chimed in as he flipped the new batch of bacon.

Really?! I knew they were just teasing me (it’s what we do around here) but, I wanted to scream, what about the salmon and the cornbread and the bacon? But I didn’t. Instead, I decided to embrace my failings.

“Yep,” I responded. “Bad mommy. I failed you.”

See, I’m trying to teach my kids that it is ok to fail because, according to the New York Times, this will help them succeed.  The article by Paul Tough, What if the Secret to Success Is Failure?, has been on my mind a lot these past few weeks. I live in an ultra-competitive neighborhood and my kids attend schools filled with over-achievers who have parents who over-achieved. Failing is not something to be embraced here.

But, according to Mr. Tough, letting kids fail and overcome that failure is a better indication of how successful they will be than any grade they get in a class. “We all know — on some level, at least,” Mr. Tough writes. “That what kids need more than anything is a little hardship: some challenge, some deprivation that they can overcome, even if just to prove to themselves that they can.”

My kids know failure. They are good students, good kids, and good at what they attempt but by no means are they shining stars – yet. They have been cut from sports teams, done badly on tests and been in trouble at school. But they still live with this idea that to be good at something you have to be great. I don’t just blame our town, I blame myself (see, I am embracing my failings).

I have not really let my kids see me fail. Nor have I let them hear about my past failings (and I’m not talking about my perm or my bad taste in boyfriends in the 80s). I’ve tried to protect them from seeing my struggles because I thought that was a lot to put on a kid. I grew up watching my parents struggle at times with their business and, although in hindsight, it was good to watch how they pulled themselves out of it, at the time it was tough to watch.

So, back to the bacon.

After admitting my failings in the kitchen I decided to let it all out. “You know,” I mentioned casually. “I got a “D” in college. In Greek Mythology.” I added the last part because my 11-year-old is reading a book about a young Greek demigod who is supposed to be the son of Poseidon; AND (this is the best part) I’m Greek. 100%. How much worse could that be?

“You?” gasped my 11-year-old. “A ‘D’? On a test, right?” As if the idea of a “D” in a class was so beyond his imagination.

“No,” I admitted. “I finished the year with a D.”

“I thought you only got ‘A’s’?” my 15-year-old asked incredulously.

“Mostly A’s.” I explained nonchalantly. “Until my sophomore year in college.”

“So, why didn’t you mention this before?” my oldest asked skeptically. “And how did you get a ‘D’ in Greek mythology? You’re Greek!” He was now eyeing me with serious suspicion. I could see the wheels turning. Was he questioning my honesty? Maybe I should have reveled in my failures a lot earlier.

“But you never got a ‘D’ after that year, right?” he asked.

“Right,” I responded hesitantly. I wasn’t quite sure where he was going with this.

“Because you couldn’t have gotten into law school with a bunch of D’s, right?” he asked.

“Right,” I said slowly.

“So, getting a ‘D’ really doesn’t matter, does it?” he stated. “It didn’t ruin your life.”

Now I saw the path we were on. Rather than learning about resiliency he figured he now had a pass to fail- at least once. Apparently, I failed at teaching failing.

I guess I won’t mention my “D” in psych.

*Originally posted on acontrolledsubstance.com on October 7, 2011

We just picked up our 11-year-old from 2 weeks of overnight camp and 2 weeks was not enough – for me not him. I know, that sounds horrible but having one kid in the house for a little while isn’t always a bad thing. It’s quiet – and as the mother of two very, very loud boys – quiet is rare in my home.

I used to tell my husband that his mother sent him to overnight camp because she didn’t love him. He would be gone for eight weeks (eight weeks!) every summer – how could a mother part with her son for that long, I would ask?

He would try to tell me that summer camp was the greatest experience of his life. He pushed for our oldest son to go but I wanted no part of it. No son or ours was going to be gone for that long until he went to college. And then, last year, our then 10-year-old asked to go to camp for a couple of weeks with his friend. It didn’t surprise me that he would be the one who wanted to leave. He’s had one foot out the door since he was three – but I was still shocked and sad. My baby wants to leave me!?

So, I agreed – begrudgingly. For weeks before he was scheduled to leave I cried. He, on the other hand, couldn’t wait to go. Until the night before his scheduled departure, when he turned to me and said, “I don’t want to go.” Very quietly, very sweetly. I was ready to scoop him up and flee. We could drive very far away and no one would find us until it was too late for him to go to camp! I would save him!

But instead of totally freaking him out by suddenly packing and running from our home, I told him that he would be fine and if he was really sad he could call me and I would come running to get him. It broke my heart. What kind of mother was I? I suppose if he had been sobbing uncontrollably I would have reacted a bit more like the psychotic mother I wanted to be, but he was stoic. And so he went.

I watched the bus pull away and choked back the tears. I waved at him and smiled a big smile until he was out of sight. Then I punched my husband in the arm and burst into tears. How could he have let me send our 10-year-old away? I wasn’t like his mother, I loved my kids.

Every day I scoured the camp website for photos of our son. When I didn’t see any during the first couple of days I was certain that he was cowering in a corner of his cabin sobbing, so I made my husband call the camp to check in. (I made him call because A, it was his fault that our son was gone and, B, I didn’t want to look like the crazy one).

Shortly after that phone call we received a video of him waterskiing and having the time of his life. I think we got two notes from him the entire time. I took that as a good sign – he was having too much fun to write. But what about me? How could he not miss me?!

What a difference a year makes.

Sure, I was a little teary at the bus drop off this year but I knew what he was getting into. Sure, I checked the web site for photos but as the days went by I settled into a very quiet little existence. First of all, having a 15-year-old in the house means that you have your mornings free – he doesn’t wake up before noon. Secondly, you can just leave and leave a note. (You can’t really leave your 11-year-old home alone although most people I know do). We could watch R-rated movies with our 15-year-old at night and go out for real dinners (our 11-year-old doesn’t always like food or sitting still). And, while I usually got upset that our 15-year-old walks around with ear buds in his ears all day or ignores me for hours at a time– now I relished the quiet. I could read books and no one talked to me and more importantly, I didn’t have to act as a referee.

And now he’s back.

Of course, I’m happy to have him back. He’s funny and sweet and energetic and I missed our chats. And, three days later, I have yet to break up a fight or raise my voice. So, maybe it was a good experience for everyone. Maybe my mother-in-law was on to something. Maybe next year I’ll send them both…

Originally posted on acontrolledsubstance.com on July 21, 2011

Kids do stupid things.

A handful of  recent incidents  in our town made me remember just how dumb kids can be.

First, there was the 8th grade girl who snuck a joint onto an airplane in a tampon during the annual junior high Washington D.C. field trip. Another kid was recently arrested at the high school for selling pot laced brownies and another kid was forbidden from participating in the graduation ceremony because he tossed a bunch of pornographic material down the stairwell in, what he thought, was a humorous senior prank.

Which brings me to today.

My 15-year-old is attending an event at his high school tonight to raise money for charity. It’s an overnight event where participants are asked to walk a track throughout the night to show their support for cancer survivors and to honor the memory of those who have lost their lives to cancer. Nice event.

However, since the event will be filled with high school students who are not always the sharpest knives in the drawer, I had to lay down some ground rules regarding the event. The first, last and most important lesson that I offered was: DO NOT EAT ANY BAKED GOODS at this event. I’m not paranoid; I just don’t trust kids to use good judgment. Eat pizza, hot dogs, and popcorn; just avoid the home-baked goodies.

I thought we were done with this discussion until my son announced yesterday that one of the kids at the event is going to bake cupcakes and my son has to sell them.

Every alarm in my head went off.

Very calmly I reminded him about our discussion the week before and I told him that he was forbidden from selling any baked goods that he did not personally bake. In case yesterday’s discussion didn’t stick I thought I would remind him again today because my kid is naïve and more importantly he doesn’t hear anything that I say the first time.

Me: “Remember to tell your friends that you are not allowed to sell any baked goods of any kind at this event.”

Son: “That’s stupid. No one is going to be stupid enough to bring in baked goods with pot in them.”

Me: “Of course it’s stupid, which is exactly why someone will try to bring in baked goods with pot in them.”

Son: “I’m going to be ridiculed if I tell them that I can’t sell the cupcakes.”

Me: “You’ll be ridiculed even more when you are wearing an orange jumpsuit in prison. Selling pot laced cupcakes is a felony,” I remind him.

Enter my husband, laughing.

To our son: “Don’t sell anything with pot in it,” laughing more.

Me (getting mad now): It’s not funny. Kids are stupid. Someone will bring in baked goods with pot.”

Son: “To a cancer event?”

I continue yelling and he starts texting.

More yelling; more texting.

Son: “He hates you”

Me: “Who?”

Son: “I told my friend that you think he’s going to bake pot-laced cupcakes to sell at the cancer event. He doesn’t like you anymore.”

Me: “You told him that I thought he would put pot in the cupcakes?”

Son: “Yea. Well that’s what you said. Oh, and I told him that you thought he was a bad kid”

Told you, kids are stupid.

I think the friend’s actual response was: “Your mom thinks I’m going to bake cupcakes with pot in them and sell them at a cancer benefit that I am on the board of?”

Makes me sound kind of bad, doesn’t it?

“She doesn’t even know me and she’s judging me?” he continued.

Makes me sound even worse, doesn’t it?

But the truth is, I don’t know this kid. So, yes, I am judging him. I only know my kid. And I know that my kid is still naïve and would not even think that someone would bake pot-laced cupcakes let alone have him sell them. I’m trying to prevent my kid from being the one who sells the cupcakes, gets caught, and has to dig himself out of a hole.

Aren’t I supposed guide my kids? Aren’t I supposed to share my limited knowledge of the world and hope that some of it sticks? Only now I feel like I tried to control too much. So much, that I now feel like I need to apologize to a 15-year-old. And, I’ve embarrassed my kid (ok, he did that to himself) and possibly jeopardized our relationship because he feels like a pariah.

Like I said, kids do stupid things. But so do parents.

Next parenting lesson: think twice before sending anything that could be deemed controversial via text, emailing, twitter, Facebook, etc.

Originally posted on acontrolledsubstance.com on June 12, 2011

“I’m so hungry and there is NOTHING TO EAT!”

And so begins the after school fun.

My 15-year-old will stand in front of an open refrigerator teeming with food—yogurt, wedges of multiple types of cheese, tortillas for quesadillas, frozen ravioli, drawers full of fruit and lunch meat, 3 different kinds of bread, frozen pizzas, 2 kinds of peanut butter, 3 different jellies, eggs (uncooked and hardboiled), and every kind of condiment you can imagine—and complain that there is no food in the fridge.

This is usually followed by words that make my blood boil: “Make me SOMETHING!”

Keeping up with the food intake of a 15-year-old boy is a very time-consuming (not to mention, expensive) proposition. My son needs to eat at least every 2 hours or he becomes Hangry – no, it’s not a typo – he becomes so hungry that he becomes angry and nobody needs a teenager who is angrier than usual.

He is capable of consuming an entire sub sandwich, a large bag of chips, yogurt and fruit and he’ll finish all of this off with a bowl of cereal. That’s between 3:30 and 3:45. By 4:15 he is starving!

So, what does he do? Does he then sort through the pantry and whip up a satisfying snack? Does he sift through his memories to find one of the endless recipes that I have painstakingly demonstrated to him should he find himself hungry and alone? No, of course not.  He waits for me to make him something or he grabs a completely unsatisfying cereal bar and moans until dinner.

I have been saying for years that he would starve to death if someone weren’t there to feed him. And whose fault is this? Mine. I take all the blame for this one.  I have gratefully fed him all of these years because he loves food—especially my food. What mother wouldn’t want to hear her child gush about how good her food is? “You’re the best cooker,” he told me when he was 5 as he inhaled whatever dish I put in front of him. That was cute then. Now, not so much.

So the other day, while he was begging me to make him some spinach ravioli with browned butter and shaved Parmesan (yes, yes, I’ve spoiled him, I know!), I turned to him and said: “No – make it yourself.”

“But I don’t know how,” he insisted. “And you’re right here. You could make it better.”

“Pretend I’m dead,” I responded. He turned to me in horror.
“What?” he asked.

“Pretend I’m dead,” I repeated. “How would you eat?”

I could see the wheels turning.  Should he demonstrate his limited cooking skills and make a quesadilla or should he pour another bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios?

It’s usually around this time – right after I’ve thrown down the gauntlet and demanded that he learn to take care of himself that I start to feel myself back-peddling. Would it really be so horrible to continue to cook for him while he lives at home? Couldn’t I just baby him a little while longer, he’ll be gone in a few years, right?

The reality is he would eventually find food or find a way to make food. He likes food far too much to subsist on sugar cereal and frozen waffles. He even signed up for a Creative Cuisine class next year at school. But why would he ever put any of those skills to use if I’m around to feed him? And should a 15-year-old have to?

What’s worse: not feeding your child who is asking for food or not teaching your child to fend for himself?

I feel my defenses breaking down. I’m just about to break out the pots and pans when he decides to answer me.

“If you weren’t around to feed me…I’d order take out.”

Problem solved.

Originally posted on acontrolledsubstance.com on May 29, 2011

I made my sick kid cry.

No, I’m not a monster, it’s just that he was perched on the couch, ordering his third $4.99 pay-per-view movie in as many days, and I was beginning to feel a bit manipulated.

Lest you think I am totally clueless, he did start out with red, crusty eyes and dark eye circles and he was rather pale so I know that he had been sick. We even went to the doctor where he was given eye drops and I was scolded for letting him go to a water park (aka a giant Petri dish) where no one knows what diseases lurk around the edges of the pool. But that was day one. Even day two seemed legitimate, but by day three, I had my doubts. So, I decided to whip out my slightly rusty, legal skills and cross-examine my 11-year-old.

I started off well. I sat next to him, wiped the hair off his forehead and pretended to check for the fever that I knew was not there:

“So, I think you should go to school today,” I said very tenderly.

No response.

I stood up and blocked the TV. “Are you listening to me?” I asked.  “I said, that I think you seem a lot better so you should go to school today.”

He shifted on the couch to get a better view of Jack Black as Gulliver.
“You know, I don’t really think that you are sick enough to be staying home from school.”

Still no response.

(Here is where I start to pick up steam) “In fact, it seems that the only time that you are really sick is when I ask you to get off the couch. (Louder now) “I’m sure that if I told you that you could have a friend over, right now, you would suddenly perk up.”(Wait, it gets better…) “If you stay home today you don’t get to use the computer, or the TV or any video games, you can read a book. In fact,” (almost yelling now) you can sit in your room. If you were really sick you would be sleeping!”

I turned off the TV with a flourish and pointed toward the staircase to his room.

I knew I lost it. I mean, really? All sick kids take to their beds? What was I talking about?
I never did that – I spent the day on the couch and watched TV when I was sick just like every other kid.

So, here I am, knowing that I’ve gone too far (even the dog abandoned me by this point) when my son’s tears start to flow. “You never believe me!” he wailed.

And still I hesitated. My son is quite dramatic, you see, so usually the tears don’t clinch it right away. (I once found him lying on the floor, clutching his chest and gasping for air, howling that he couldn’t breathe in the winter coat that I insisted he wear– in February, in Chicago. So, yes, he is quite dramatic.)

But this time it was real: the shaking shoulders, the runny nose, the blubbering. He’s a good actor, but not that good.

So, after many hugs and many apologies for my outburst, I reached for the phone to call the school to let them know that he would be out for another day.  Just as I picked up the phone, it rang. It was the nurse calling from the doctor’s office to tell me that my son had strep throat and needed antibiotics.

So, like all people who suddenly feel very sick, I took to my couch to watch TV…just like my kid.

Originally published on acontrolledsubstance.com on May 7, 2011