Ironic Mom

I think a great gift for new parents would be stock options in Band-Aid. Let’s face it: if you have a young kid, Band-Aids are practically an accessory. They come in different sizes and skin tones – though I still have to wonder who has a Sponge-Bob-patterned epidermis.

In my early days of parenting, I was anti-Band-Aids. Tough kids don’t need ‘em, I reasoned. So I made a rule: no Band-Aids unless you’re bleeding.

No Band-Aids for You!

I thought this was quite clever, and it worked well enough when my twins were two. Our consumption of Band-Aids was below average. The rule enabled us to rake in a savings of about fourteen cents a month, enough to buy 1½ mojos.

When my cretins were nearly four, however, the Scrimp-on-Band-Aids, Save-for-College theory went south. One warm spring day, we went to the front yard where Vivian and William played with sidewalk chalk, which is the perfect craft for an Anti-Craft Mom like me since it involves no clean up (unless your kid runs onto the road and gets schmucked). But I digress.

So there William and Vivian were, playing hopscotch on their crooked squares. I think I was flinging grape-sized gravel off our lawn. And then came the screams. I don’t even remember which kid it was, but there was a knee injury. I inspected it, lest the screams make the neighbours suspicious.

“Mommy,” my child sobbed. “I need a Band-Aid.”

The knee looked like classic rug burn: pink and inflamed but not bleeding. “No blood, no Band-Aid,” I said.

I went back to flinging gravel pieces.

I’m not sure how much time passed until I noticed my kids were abnormally quiet.

I looked up and saw them huddled together, inspecting something closely.

I walked over.

Both twins were using their fingernails, scratching Twin A’s sidewalk scrape.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Nothing,” they chimed, the mantra of the guilty.

“Are you picking the scrape?” I asked.

Four eyes looked up at me. One voice answered, “We’re trying to make it bleed.”

“So I can get a Band-Aid,” the other added.

Excellent. Another parenting strategy that failed. I am a mother who encourages masochistic behaviour. That’s up there with my plan to bring two kids to Build-a-Bear to buy one kid a stuffed animal.

Thankfully tomorrow is another day, which means there’s a small possibility that I’ll do things right and a large possibility that I’ll do something that fast tracks us to family therapy.

This parenting thing baffles me. Generally I’m so lost in a labyrinth of fuzz that I don’t even bother to think about it. But today, I’ll wander back in.

A recent MRI of my brain (post-childbirth). Yes, my head is rectangular.

In many ways, I don’t have high expectations for my twins. I don’t expect (or want) them to be the top of the class, famous actors, or even Olympic athletes, although I have fleeting moments when I feel like pushing them down an icy luge track, with or without the sled. More than anything I want them to be normal, or (do I dare say it?) average.

This won't be one of my kids, unless I lose it and push them down the track

I think my own perfectionist tendencies fell off the cliff when I was pregnant. It was not an easy pregnancy – two bouts of mandatory bedrest in a foreign country, far from my own mom. After the first crisis (bleeding at nine weeks), I panicked. When our Thai doctor did the scan, I just wanted him to say the word “normal.” Or, as he said in his accented English, “Nor-MAALL” (to get the approximate punctuation, it rhymes with “Sore-GAL”).

Every appointment from that point on, I would come armed with a paranoid woman’s list of concerns and he would gratefully answer, “Nor-MAALL, completely Nor-MAALL”.

Later, my husband would imitate me, “Doctor, I’ve grown a third eye and there are mushrooms sprouting from my ears.” “No worries,” my husband would continue his impression, “it’s Nor-MAALL.”

It was then, during those stressful months, that my husband and I hung up our Going-for-Gold armchair parenting mentality and switched to something more lackluster. We weren’t planning to Own the Podium; we were hoping to cross the finish line.

Thankfully, we did. William and Vivian were born with Apgar scores that were good enough.

Now, nearly six years later, I still try to retain this Ode to Nor-MAALL. It’s hard, though. The current parenting culture seems to pressure parents to schedule their kids with activities that would rival the agenda of a CEO. It’s confusing, though, because in striving for Nor-MAALL I don’t want to raise underachieving kids who don’t have the confidence to push themselves.

What do you think? How hard do you push your children?

I thought I was done with tantrums.

I mean, my twins are nearly six, and we’ve had one year free of embarrass-mom-in-public moments.

Most tantrums I barely remember, my body activating the Parenting-Amnesia reflex, the one that enables moms and dads to crawl out of bed the next morning at 5:45.

There are some vague memories of tantrums floating around my hippocampus, though. I can recollect fireman-carrying my son out of a bookstore when he was three, screaming and kicking through the Children’s Section, the Self-Help Section, and then the Fiction Area (how I wished it were fiction). I can remember dragging my daughter’s arm through the library turnstiles, knowing the rest of her body would follow….all to that two syllable Meltdown Soundtrack of “Mommmmeeeee,” screamed with the urgency only children can.

So needless to say, I was gobsmacked by my son’s twenty-minute tantrum at the mall last week.

After post trauma analysis, this meltdown revealed a cause-and-effect relationship:

KNUCKLEHEADED PARENTING IDEA = TANTRUM = OPPORTUNITY FOR PARTIALLY-REDEEMING PARENTING MOMENT

Allow me to elaborate.

Knucklehead Parenting Idea, Part 1:

My kids were quick enough to potty-train during the day, but ultra-slow to demonstrate bladder control at night. I should have left well enough alone: they’re water drinkers, their doctor said not to worry, and the pull-ups did the job. But, tired of spending 50 cents a day on diapers, I introduced The Reward. In this case, Build-a-Bear: you know, that chance to spend $40 on a stuffed animal wearing a baby shirt?

Of course, Vivian, being extremely competitive, rose to the challenge. She was night-trained months ago, and never forgot the Build-a-Bear promise.

Knucklehead Parenting Idea, Part 2:

Take both kids to Build-a-Bear to purchase a reward for one kid. Yup, this follows much the same logic as opening a can a beer in front of a newly recovering alcoholic. I explained to William that we’d get him a Good Brother Award somewhere else (“At the Dollar Store?” he asked, genuinely excited). But when he saw the machinations of Build-a-Bear and the menagerie of stuffies, he freaked out. A good mother would’ve predicted this tantrum. Not me.  If I once saw the glass half full, it was now empty and cracked.

Tantrum:

Full-on, writhe on the floor, scream, beg, jump-up-and-down, cajole. The thing was, I partly agreed with him. It was unfair. So I called my husband for moral support – or to ask for permission to get William a Build-a-Bear too. My husband encouraged me to stand firm. More tantrum. Screaming. To one passerby mother, I said, “Want another son?” She looked at me with schadenfreude. I called my husband again. He said he had no idea what to do. But that brief adult contact gave me my idea.

Opportunity for Good Parenting:

“We’ll go buy you two toys, William!” I said, mustering as much enthusiasm as I could. He stopped writhing and said, “You’re not listening to me, mom.”  Fair enough. I paused, trying to repress my solve-all-conflicts gene. He continued, “It’s not fair. And I’ll never get Build-a-Bear. I still pee in my pull-up. I try not to, but I still do.”

What a freaking awful mom I am I was I sometimes am. Epic fail. On so many levels here.

Like this is fair

So I listened, so we went to a department store, so the Patron Saint of Stressed-Out Mothers smiled upon me: we found an $8 stuffy with the name “William” on it. There was no Vivian teddy bear, nor was there a Leanne bear. But there was a William. Finally, he felt special and appreciated. A chocolate mini-egg rounded out Toy 2. And when we returned to Build-a-Bear, the kind worker (who witnessed the tantrum at her store front) did a give-your-bear a heart ceremony on his stuffy too.

Good to know that I have to go through this one more time…when William gets his Build-a-Bear after his nighttime pull-ups are history. Not to mention every night when he sees his sister’s gigantic pink bear named Heartsy.

The Olympics’ theme song, I Believe, has been getting a lot of airplay. Makes sense, since it’s The Winter Olympic Games and all. If you haven’t heard it, you’re clearly living in a media-deprived world, which begs the question: how are you reading this blog?

I’ve posted the shortest version I could find. Feel free to hit mute.

Hearing the mantra “I Believe” sixteen times has made me think what it is that I believe, at least in that ironic sense of parenting.

Here, then, is My Parenting Manifesto:

I believe that children are our future my present.

I believe that if I think about my children and the future that I will hyperventilate.

I believe that my children will grow up to be pre-teens who wield sarcasm like a weapon.

I believe that I will be the recipient of most of the sarcastic blows.

I believe that my kids will not be professional actors, athletes, or models.

I believe this to be a good thing.

I believe that I will like the stage where my kids can clean the bathrooms.

I believe that this stage will increase our arguments and their use of sarcasm.

I believe that my children will continue to embarrass me by misbehaving in public.

I believe that I will return the favour when they’re teenagers.

I believe my children will talk to a therapist one day about how I messed them up (possibly by blogging).

I believe that they will talk to a therapist no-matter-what, so I might as well do it anyway.

Now it’s your turn: what do you believe? What should be added to this Parenting Manifesto?

There are days when I feel that half a day has passed and it’s not even 8:15 a.m. Usually that thought hits me on the drive to school. Usually it’s in winter, after an endless search for a missing mitten.

It’s a miracle if we all make it into the minivan without me threatening to sell the children.

And then there’s the drive.

Driving: A Struggle To Arrive with Kids Alive

A couple of years ago, in a good parenting moment, I started playing Math with them while driving. I gave them number problems, and they figured out the answer (or not). The game went like this: “If Mommy, Daddy, Vivian, and William are home, and Grandma and Grandpa come to visit, how many people are in the house?”

They’ve become pretty good at it, too. So good, that I’ve started taking creative license with our problems. On a recent family outing, the scenario was this: “If Vivian and William are throwing Cheerios at each other and Daddy is still sleeping, how many people are left when Mommy runs away?”

Nothing like passive aggressive behaviour to make me feel better.

Lately, there’s been even more numbers swirling around our minivan. Every day for the past three months, Vivian and William have been telling me how many days they’ve been in school. Apparently their teachers told them they’d have a 100 Days of School party, and they’re using this as counting practice. The idea of 100 days doesn’t sound too bad, but add to it the fact that I’m a teacher and I’m in a slow-mo time warp.

“We’ve only been in school 93 days?” I ask one January Monday.

The day passes.

“It’s only Day 94?” I ask Tuesday. I’m more than aware that I teach 190 days of school each year. My math is good enough to know that we’re not even halfway there. No wonder why experts peg the end of January as the most depressing time of the year.

100 Days: Protective Gear Recommended

Day 100 closes in. New problem: each kid needs to bring 100 of something to school that day.

“How about hairs?” I ask. “There’s more than 100 on your head.”

It takes a while to silence their mass protest.

Vivian decides to bring her shell collection. William decides to bring 100 wheels (also known as 25 toy cars).

The 100^th day – yesterday – goes well enough. It’s over, and for that I’m grateful.

Now, only 90 more to go.

Photos courtesy of Mykl Roventine and Pascal, used under a Creative Commons ShareAlike License

I hate brushing teeth, whether they belong to me or someone else. At least when I scour my own, I get gratification after two minutes, running my tongue over polished enamel, falsely imagining how happy my hygienist would be.

With kids, there is little reward for many tasks, including brushing their teeth. Let’s face it, they don’t give you hugs and kisses like they do when you give them an ice cream sandwich. I’m also pretty confident that no middle-aged children giving a eulogy have ever proclaimed thanks to their mother for teaching good oral hygiene.

Thankfully, it's fluoride free.

Now, before someone calls Child and Family Services (or worse, my dentist), I will admit that I brush my kids’ teeth most nights. I approach it like I approach vacuuming: do it quickly, forget the corners, and put it away as fast as you can. But the two minute rule? I mean really. In order for me to brush my own teeth that long, I need to multitask. I used to walk around the house and putter, but that grossed out my husband. Now, I read a book while I brush, which passes the time brilliantly. It ain’t so easy with five-year-olds.

Exhibit A: Teeth Intact

When my kids were two, I asked my dentist if Will and Viv were old enough to brush their own teeth. She peered over her surgical mask and said, “No. Not until they can write their name really well.” I immediately regretted not giving them shorter names, like Jo or Bob. To rectify this, I started precision printing classes with them the next day. I have two problems with her answer, though. First, did she mean write as in print, or write as in cursive? I’m going to assume the former on this one. Second, what does “really well” mean? My brother still doesn’t print his name very well – and he’s forty-six. I know for a fact my mom doesn’t brush his teeth anymore.

When I was growing up, I don’t remember my mom brushing my teeth, ever. And I still have all my teeth. A dentist once told me I have good saliva, which I’m pretty proud of. I always meant to get the phrase printed and framed.

Exhibit B: Mostly Intact (except for the accident)

Well, my kids have a dentist appointment in a few weeks, so I better start cramming. I can always rely on both of them to be honest when the dentist asks them how frequently they clean their teeth, so I will attempt to manipulate the truth by brushing twice a day in the two weeks preceding the check up.

And I haven’t even mentioned flossing.

Or the fact that William regularly sucks the toothpaste tube dry.

It’s six days in. Six days since I started my Resolution of the Decade: drinking eight glasses of water each day. This was something I used to do on an hourly basis when I lived in Bangkok. It’s harder to drink water in the freezing Canadian winter, but I soldier on, imbibing H₂0 like it’s free or something. This drinking water thing has made me feel part of the food chain, in that what-goes-in-must-come-out way. Suffice it to say that my family has seen less of me because of frequent trips to the loo.

Water, Part 1 of 8

Resolutions are dandy, but I still prefer making them for other people, especially people I love.  Before having kids, my husband was number one on this list.

“Have you made any resolutions yet?” I’d ask.

“Why?” he’d inquire, suspiciously.

“Because I was thinking that maybe you could start to…” And I’d continue with some list item, like rub my feet every day, swear less, or make me breakfast in bed every Saturday.

Now that my twins are kindergartners, though, they’ve developed habits that annoy me. I’m still trying to figure out at what point do-no-wrong-babies turn into mischievous-preschoolers-in-need-of-a-timeout, but that might spiral into a conversation about original sin or at least the Terrible Twos, both discussions I’d rather not have.

If I were to make resolutions for Vivian, here they are. Resolution One: she needs to stop sucking on her hair. It’s limp and stringy as it is; dried saliva isn’t exactly the product of choice. Resolution Two: In keeping with the saliva theme, Vivian needs to chew with her mouth closed so dinner time doesn’t involve a lengthy close up of the digestion process’s first stage.

Bandaid, Box One

William, Vivian’s twin, is not immune to my resolutions. His first resolution should be to stop biting his cuticles and peeling his nails. I haven’t clipped them since he was one. And perhaps I should invest the money I’m saving from drinking water into Band-Aid’s stock because I’m constantly sticking one on William’s bleeding cuticles. His second resolution needs to be to stop slamming the toilet lid. It might sound minor, but at 4 a.m. it’s a wake-up call for the entire household.

Good thing I’m so damn perfect that all I have to do is hydrate.

To be fair, I asked my five-year-olds what I could be better at. Vivian said I could be better at finding things. On nights like tonight, I think she’s onto something. I could be better at finding things, like my sanity.

William said I could be better at telling stories. And given the potty-humour evident in this blog, he may be right.