Realist Parenting for Dummies

I am the mostly proud mother of four incredible young people between the ages of 14 and 19. If you break it down I was pretty much pregnant for five straight years. Half a decade! Elephants gestate for a shorter time. My oldest often encourages me to write a book on parenting. I tell her she’s lazy. If she wants evidence for my commitment hearing she’s going to have to get out there and gather it herself. I’m not going to do it for her.

If it’s true that “Experience is the name one gives to his mistakes.” Then I may just be one of the most experienced parents on earth. If I were going to write a book on parenting, it would have to be a “What not to do” guide. Which could still be useful, I suppose. But I also have a healthy fear of the universe and its perverse sense of humor. So, I know if I were to put myself forward as an expert in the field, my closet would fly open and skeletons would come tumbling out. Ugly skeletons, some in dominatrix garb, so let’s not go there. Additionally, my sense of irony is unwilling to tempt fate with the lives of my children, especially those who could prove me a fraud through some tragic revenge. I just really don’t want to be interviewed by TMZ as I bail out one of my offspring– the “If you’re such an expert, how did this happen?” questions. We’ve all seen it happen.

The truth is, for the most part, I consider myself a failure as a parent. What my daughter views as clever, creative parenting, I view as desperation. Like when the children would not stop bickering and name calling. I couldn’t take the petty infighting anymore. Finally I told them they could insult each other as much as they wanted, but they had to do it in a British accent. That lasted about four minutes and they were so overcome with laughter they quit fighting. While I achieved the ultimate goal of peace and somewhat quiet, a good mother would have taught her children a lesson about why insulting each other is hurtful, so it wouldn’t happen again. Not just raise some polite sounding reprobates.

I think I started out well, right up until they outnumbered me. That’s when the overwhelming exhaustion and desperation set in. I feel like I’ve been chasing after things from that point on; like I’m always ten steps behind what they need. I can never keep the refrigerator full, the housework caught up, the homework checked, and the motherly ear tuned enough. I’m going to admit it here, the tooth fairy for my youngest was incompetent. One time it took her three weeks to pick up a tooth. Sure she left an apology note (in tiny handwriting) and a little extra cash, but she still missed the next tooth by several days! Poor kid, she also got gipped in the photo album category. At a certain point in time parenting just became about maintenance. Skip the frills and thrills (or at least the frills) and fulfill the basic requirements: Get them to the end zone alive. And even that has been iffy at times. (Boys! Who knew?)

A couple weeks ago I watched a mom comforting her preschooler. I envied her. The days of “kiss it and make it better” are long gone for me, if they ever really existed at all. I realized I was a Realist parent. I’ve reared my kids with the knowledge that life kicks you in the ass, hard, alot. Impale yourself on the bicycle handlebar? That’s what happens when you don’t have proper safety gear. What? I didn’t provide proper safety gear? Look kid we didn’t have crap like that when I was your age and we survived just fine. See this scar? I don’t even remember how I got that one. I was blacked out for days!

It’s not that I wasn’t compassionate. I offered my fair share of condolences in the emergency room. But I didn’t run over to coddle them every time they took a spill. If they could get up on their own in the first minute I just pretended I didn’t see the fall. (They usually only cry if they know you’re watching.) I started thinking about it as I watched that mom comforting her child. The thing is, the child had been mildly scolded by an adult for doing something dangerous. Her feelings were hurt and as soon as her mom noticed, she fell apart. So while part of me envied her, the other part didn’t get it at all. My kids probably would have been doing the dangerous thing–that’s a given, but they certainly wouldn’t have drawn my attention to it. They pretty much knew I wouldn’t have been sympathetic to that kind of thing. I would have told them the adult was right, knock it off.

“Suck it up” has become an overused phrase in my vocabulary. Life is rough; sometimes you have to learn to get along with idiots; teacher’s/ school (fill in the blank) sucks– Get over it; quitcher-bitchin; we don’t always get what we want; who said life is fair; figure it out; and make it work…all popular in our house. None of them are said in a mean way, but that’s Realist parenting. Life has ups and downs. No one gets off the ride. Tickets are overpriced.

They probably don’t remember the cuddles and songs and dance parties the way I do. They used to have the “ideal” mom. I was a stay-at-home mom for twelve years. In those times I took some pretty shit-jobs, so I could be home with them during the days, and my husband would be home at nights. I did all the “good mom” stuff like bake, and play games, build things with Lego’s, and dance barefoot. But eventually, as they grew older, I realized that I couldn’t protect them, no matter how hard I tried, from the real world. My “job” definition changed. I wasn’t their protector, I was their tour guide. I had a limited amount of time to introduce them to life and all the unpredictable stuff in it and I had to prepare them to protect themselves. I couldn’t always be there. I couldn’t always face down the bully, clean off the blood, wipe the noses. They would have to become competent at those things themselves. It wasn’t unloving, it was reality.

I couldn’t be prouder of them. They are all smart, capable, independent thinkers. They can stand up to authority and injustice, fight with auto insurance companies, shop for a good deal, be competent at their jobs, and know when it’s time to let someone else jump off the roof into that patch of thorny bushes and jagged rocks. They are good friends, good citizens, and good people. I still get compliments on them, although there are those times I’m mortified to be seen in public with them.

In all honesty, I think I just got lucky. Maybe whatever the decision-making power in the universe is, it figured out these kids were going to need to be special to survive me. Maybe I had little to nothing to do with their successes, although I’m sure they’ll tell you all the failures I’m responsible for. Either way, I was a “creative” parent out of necessity, not because I had any big secrets to share. The fact that they made it this far, this well, is no credit to me. So, sorry Sweetie. No parenting book is forthcoming. But when it comes time to be a Grandma (in the very distant future. Very. Distant.) I’ll be sure to remind her what an authority she felt I was. Of course, she has no fear of authority so I probably won’t win that one either.