One of our kids is not playing nicely with some of her fellow students. She is doing well academically, but there are some shenanigans going on during the recess and lunch breaks that need to be addressed quickly.

My younger brother struggled to get along with some of his peers, and his troubles were exacerbated by a general lack of interest in school and a sometimes difficult relationship with his teachers (who were not at all curious about why he might not like school so they just stuck him in the corner and told him to be quiet… thank goodness modern education allows for different learning styles in students… but I digress).

My parents were strong advocates for my brother, and I can remember their frustration with The System’s inability to cater to his specific but not unreasonable needs. I think it’s just the perfect happy ending that my brother married a brilliant school teacher and thus restored his faith in teachers and education in general. But at the time, I can remember them being very upset that his behaviour was causing disruption in the classroom; I’m sure they must have felt torn between their concern for his well-being and their concern for the experience of the other kids.

I’m still digressing.

The point is, it is quite confronting to be told that your child is behaving in a way that a) might effect another child’s enjoyment of school, and b) would almost certainly raise the hackles of the parents of that effected child. I know, because my kids have been the target of some fairly unsavoury behaviour in the past and nothing makes my blood boil quite like it. Can’t these parents control their child? What kinds of lessons are they teaching them at home if this is the way they behave at school?

Gulp.

Some of the same behaviours ARE being played out at home, and we tackle it head-on when we see it happening. Perhaps naively, we had no idea it was carrying on in the playground. The teacher was nervous to talk to us about it, no doubt worried that we might react with shock and disbelief and try to blame the other kids. No, we were pretty calm about it. Perhaps not really all that surprised. So we have promised to talk to our daughter about it, and we will check in with her teacher every week to see if there has been any improvement.

I have complained about the dreadful behaviour of other children at our daughters’ school - to other parents, to the Principal - and really all I ever wanted was some reassurance that the behaviour was being managed, that the offending child’s parents were involved, and that the school was employing an effective long-term strategy to not only help that child to learn how to get along with the other kids, but that the other kids (the ‘victims’) were being empowered to stand up for themselves as well. Our goal in this instance is to help our daughter see that this particular manifestation of her very strong leadership tendencies is discouraged, and that she channel that energy in a positive way.

Gosh, this parenting thing is really tough sometimes.

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I have no great sympathy for their claims that the media should back off, respecting their privacy as a family. When you open your life as they have (and as I have on my blog), you have to take the good with the bad. There will be those that love you no matter what. There will be people who will celebrate every stumble and heartbreak you experience. Others will question everything you do. It’s part and parcel of the deal.

In the end, though, what we have is a couple who is ending their relationship in a very public way. Regardless of my opinions about their relationship and parenting choices, I can’t help but watch their faces and see so much that is familiar.

I saw it months ago, the lack of physical contact, the emotional detachment, the harsh words that were only half-joking. They got further and further from each other. Soon, that interview couch could not have been long enough.

Eyes were swollen. Walls were up. The end was near.

They stopped joint interviews. Each took his/her turn with the cameras. The end was imminent.

The time they spent together with the children reminded me of the parallel play of toddlers. Functioning in the same space, but barely aware of the existence of the other. No empathy. No connection.

Now it’s over.

Watching last night’s episode reminded me so much of my experience over the last six months. The grief. The hurt. The regret. Playing things over and over in my head. Picking things apart to figure out where we went wrong. What I did. What he did. What we did.

I could see it in them and I hurt for them. I also know that there is a light at the end of the tunnel. In fact, I have two little lights and they have the good fortune to have eight of them. The kids.

So, for the kids, I give Jon and Kate the following advice. Many of it came from the therapists and classes I’ve been to and the books I read, so I won’t claim original authorship by any stretch. Nonetheless, I see many parallels between the Gosselin’s post-split parenting plan and ours, so I’ll share the things that have been especially pertinent in our case.

1. It’s not about you anymore. It’s about them. Put the blame aside and think of the kids in every decision you make. What’s best for them may be a pain in the a$$ for you. Suck it up and deal.

2. If you were frustrated by the lack of control you had in your relationship before, be prepared to have even less. He will have his rules and routines and she will have hers. Structure is good and organic is great, but I can’t find any cases of death-by-breakfast-for-dinner.

3. Be flexible. Kids have this funny way of growing up. Their needs will change over time and so will yours. The arrangements you make now will need to shift at least every six months. Set up basic principles and guidelines to be fair, but expect that things will change.

4. Give before you take. If you expect flexibility, patience, and trust from your co-parent, you’ll need to give it first. You don’t have to be a doormat, but you don’t need to be a scorekeeper either.

5. Be prepared to communicate more than you ever did when you were married. Every hand-off will bring updates on who is up to what, schedules, activities, illnesses, boo-boos, school reports and more. Find a way that works for you. If talking doesn’t work, do it by e-mail. Don’t expect your kids to play messenger, they’ll get the emotions right (e.g., your hurt, anger, and distrust) and the facts wrong, neither of which is good.

6. Be the grown up. Yes, you’re both hurting and divorce is inevitably painful. (It should be. If it wasn’t, everyone would do it.) But venting to your kids or around your kids is not the answer. Be careful how you talk about your ex, even when you think the kids aren’t in earshot. Don’t be afraid to ask well-meaning friends and family to hold off on their editorials. It’s okay to let your kids know that you’re sad, but they need to know that you’re both going to be okay. They need to know that THEY’RE going to be okay. If you need help coping with the situation, get a therapist, meet a friend for lunch, take a walk.

7. Be sure to take care of yourself. Use the time away from the kids to recharge your batteries. Trust that your co-parent has things under control and, although things may not be handled the way that you would do them, the kids are going to be fine. The best gift you can give your kids right now is a happy and healthy mom and dad.

As the season progresses, I am sure there will be plenty of armchair experts out there who will analyze every move they make throughout this whole process. Will the decision to share the household work? Will Jon opt to leave for a job out of state? Will the show remain interesting without the constant tension on the sofa interviews? Are the kids getting too staged?

I’m going to stay out of that. I’m going to wish the Gosselins well and hope they find the healing they need.

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This week: Is it ever OK to hit your child? I’m sure many of us have tales of being routinely spanked or even smacked around when we were younger — did it affect your life as an adult? Did it form your spanking policies with your own children? And has the use of spanking as discipline really declined, or is it just that the anti-spanking crowd has been given a bigger voice with the advent of the internet?

Discuss.

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My mother has a reasonably active social life but I think even she would agree that she spends a lot of time focussed on being a grandmother. With six grandchildren, it’s hard not to be. My sister, brother and I have all benefited from Mum’s help and advice and emergency babysitting service at some time or another, and so our lives have all become quite tightly intertwined. I don’t know if it’s fair to say that Mum has forsaken other activities that some other people her age have taken up in their retirement years, but she probably would be quite a different person if she hadn’t had her brood of grandchildren to fuss over.

For example, she would have found the time to go back to University, albeit forty years later, and do that psychology degree she had to give up when my older sister was born. Or maybe she would have just joined the ‘university of the third age’ and done a course in English Literature or Australian History. Perhaps she would have taken up yoga, something she did religiously in her 30s (we kids used to think Mummy was going somewhere for ‘yoghurt’). Maybe she would have started writing a cookbook. Who knows? But she has complained out aloud more than once that she’s ‘far too busy to do anything like that, what with all these grandchildren to look after!”

This year, by sheer coincidence, both my younger sister (mother of three) and I (mother of two) are planning to leave our home, and not just our home town; we’re moving to the other side of the world. She’s going to America, we are going to Europe. She’s going forever, we’re going for at least a couple of years. My mother greeted the news of my sister’s imminent departure with shock and despair. I haven’t the courage to add to her grief by telling her that we are also planning to leave, although I will need to do this as soon as we have decided on a departure date. The double-whammy is going to be very difficult for her, and for my Dad, to deal with, there’s no question of that, and I feel awful that she will take it so badly.

But here’s the thing. I am almost forty years old, and have wanted to live overseas for as long as I can remember. My mother will probably offer to help us pack up the house, she might even want to drive us to the airport. I can count on her help, but I don’t think I can count on unconditional support. She just doesn’t want any of us to go, and she has never been one to hold back an opinion, especially the kind that disagrees with our own. I love my mother, but… well, we all have stories to tell, don’t we? My kids are eight and eleven and I KNOW they have stories to tell. She doesn’t want us to go and I worry that she wont take advantage of all this free time she will have and start a new project that will keep her mind busy and her body active. I’m worried that she will simply be too sad.

At the end of the day, you have to let you kids go. You have to trust that you have brought them up well, and trust that they will be OK even though you’re not there to catch them if they stumble and fall. You have to let them do what they need to do in order to be happy, even if that means you have to take a blunt knife and carve your heart from your chest. It’s the sting in the tail of the otherwise joyful thrill of being a parent. And whether you have to do that when your kids are 18 or 38 is hardly relevant. The rules are the same. Let them go, and support their life choices. And then move on with your own life, finding happiness and fulfillment in learning, exercise, travel, hobbies, friends and your community. And Skype.

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Regardless of all the shelves dedicated to books, guides, and how-to’s on it, parenting is a work in progress – definitely something you live and learn.

Lucky. If you’re lucky, you live it first as a recipient. I suspect more often than not that most of us learned how to parent from our years of on-the-job training in being a child. We grow up swearing we will do every single last thing differently than our own parents did with us and then, fortunately, we don’t.

Curiously, as my children grow, I seem to hear my mother’s voice a lot. Strangely, it’s coming out of my mouth. Apparently, I’ve contracted fairly common phenomena known as Maternal Revenge Syndrome (aka MRS). All my most sage parenting phrases seem to have come directly from my mentor, also known as “Mom.”

“You’re bored? Scrub the bathroom. That will give you something to do.”

“Life isn’t fair.

“Look it up.”

“Sound it out.”

“Yes, you can.”

“If all your friends were jumping off bridges would you?”

“Don’t look at me in that tone of voice.”

“Because I said so.

“You just wait.”

“If you break your leg, don’t come running to me.”

“Maybe.” We’ll see.”

Followed shortly by,

“I said, “maybe.” If you ask me again the answer becomes “no.”

“Apparently, I was born yesterday?”

“I hope you have a child just like you someday.”

“How ever did I survive all these years without you telling me what to do?”

“Someday you’ll thank me.”

Sing. My own mother, with a flair for the dramatic, would add her own galling little song and dance to this repertoire. When I complained about my grueling chore schedule (upon being forced to endure such indignities as picking up after myself and rinsing my own cereal bowl, and where, pray tell, is Amnesty International on this issue I ask you?) she would respond by singing “The Work Song” from Disney’s Cinderella nearly EVERY SINGLE TIME. Just imagine yourself an easily mortified pre-teen being serenaded by your MOTHER in a voice eerily reminiscent of those cartoon mice singing: Cinderelly, Cinderelly night and day it’s Cinderelly, make the fire, fix the breakfast, wash the dishes, do the mopping, And the sweeping and the dusting, they always keep her hopping.”

And people wonder why I grew up to make a living out of laughing at myself?

Predictable to the end, I swore up and down that I would never visit such indignities upon any child of mine. So what do I say when my own children react in horror at my suggestion that they clear a path through their rooms?

You guessed it: “Cinderelly, Cinderelly…”

As for that prediction of “someday you’ll thank me,” you’re right mom - I will.

Thanks for teaching me the value of hard work, making your own luck, family, having invisible friends (who steal your clothes and order Chinese), laughing in the face of adversity, proving them wrong, making things right, that I can do anything – but that I’m not too good to scrub a toilet, and the untold joy of sharing the lyrics of “the work song” with my own reluctant offspring.

Do. I know Mother’s Day has passed. This column isn’t late; it’s here by design. I don’t want anyone sending a copy of something they clipped out of the newspaper to their mother as a present. As flattered as I might be, she’s your momma, and that’s just cheap. If you are blessed to have your own mother, a motherly figure, or your child’s mother in your life, and you haven’t done so already, then by all means thank her. Don’t just lick a stamp and let Hallmark to do it for you. Use your big words. Look it up. Sound it out. Say it. Write it. Sing it if necessary (the “Work Song” has a nice little tune you could borrow).

Whatever you choose - just do it.

Because I said so.

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We were in our in twenties, happily married, had a house, a “safe” car and by all normal measures were more than ‘ready’ to start a family. As a result no one fainted, wailed, lectured us, or worried about how we were going to “make it.” We further prepared for the baby like all young couples by loading up with lots of baby items (some of it useless) and well-meant advice (most of it necessary).  Like most overzealous worriers, we tried to plan down to the last baby wipe just what kind of impact this baby would have on our lives.

What we failed to calculate was that while I was worrying about changing the baby, I failed to see how the baby would change me.

Change. Parenting is inspiring, exciting, and exhilarating. It’s also exhausting, confusing, and demoralizing. You are sometimes made to feel guilty when you put yourself first. Can’t mom just have a minute? ONE FREAKIN’ MINUTE TO HERSELF? Can’t mommy keep some semblance of her former life without having someone (even if only the voices in her head) chime in “your life has changed forever” in a patronizing tone? Yes, life has changed forever - life has changed for everyone because of this new life - but that doesn’t mean I have to give up my identity. Does it? DOES IT?

Of course it does.

The “old me” ceased to be on the morning of my firstborn’s birth when a nurse returned my newborn to me, scrubbed pink and swaddled like a small, sturdy cotton burrito. She sailed into the room and presented me to him (and not, it is worth noting, the other way around) with the exclamation “here’s Mommy!” Like most newly minted mothers I was momentarily taken aback - “Was someone’s mom in the room?” “How did I not hear her sneak in here?” - before realizing that I was now “somebody’s mom.”

Whoa.

Identity. At birth our parents gave us names to identify us.  We have carried that name since our first days on Earth. Family and friends know us by first names, last names, or nicknames At the time I became somebody’s mother, I had been Kym, Kymberly or Miss Foster for 28 years and Mrs. Seabolt for six months. I had never, ever been “Matthew’s Mom” and then, overnight, I was.

Almost immediately, I lost my identity. No longer was I addressed as Kymberly or Kym but, rather, as “Matthew’s Mother.” Doctor’s, teachers, fellow parents, coaches, classmates and friends all address me as such.

I have jokingly responded to “are you Matthew’s mom?” with a cheery “yep, that’s what it says on my Driver’s License.” Little children will wave at me in the Post Office or the grocery store “Hi, Matthew’s mom!” I have even been approached by people who peer at me as if they recognize me and say “hey, I know you!” or “Why do I know you?” as my head grows larger by the second, and just as I am ready to draw myself up and say (modestly of course) “well you probably recognize me from the NEWSPAPER” they will inevitably snap their fingers and say “Oh now I know! You’re “Matthew’s mom!”

This is not to say that I am not a diverse, colorful, and well-rounded individual. I am often referred to as “Kassie’s Mom” too.

I guess if you are to become famous for something, being somebody’s parent is a respectable endeavor.

I have been Matthew’s Mom for 4,016 days. In all these 4,016 days I have awoken every single morning still thrilled – and somewhat stunned – to be “Matthew’s Mom” (and, later, “Kassie’s mom” too).

It is said that in becoming a parent you lose a part of yourself. I suspect this is very much true. You lose yourself in the sheer unadulterated joy and blessing of this child (or children) you have been given.

No matter what you answer to, being somebody’s mom is a pretty great gift, indeed.

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Photo by Sean Dreilinger

The gist of it is this: Parents make a conscious decision to give their children equal say and representation in how they’re raised, their discipline (if any) and major family decisions giving them complete freedom to choose whatever they want to do in any situation, barring life threatening situations (at least I hope so as this isn’t addressed in the article). Only difference with this new press — it’s been given a new name, “consensual parenting”. Formally such movements were called everything from child centered parenting, attachment parenting or “gentle discipline”.

“When parents put themselves in the role as authorities, they may believe they are doing it ‘for the child’s good,’ ” writes one of the movement’s co-founders, Anna Brown, “but they could be missing an opportunity to have more connected relationships with their children.”

Lindsay Hollett of Nanaimo, B.C., says that she began to snap less with her husband, Craig, and her 18-month-old daughter, Kahlan, after she adopted the consensual-living mindset about a year ago.

Her days became more relaxed when she focused more on Kahlan’s needs, she says. If she had a doctor’s appointment but her daughter was feeling grumpy, for example, Ms. Hollett would not force Kahlan to wait with her to see the doctor. Instead, Ms. Hollett might cancel the appointment or arrange alternative child care, she says.

So, basically, this is a parenting method whereby no boundaries or limits are placed on ones own children.

My question is — what’s the point of even being a parent? Doesn’t this higher form of enlightened parenting render parents role obsolete? Couldn’t you just as easily send them to state run institution to be raised if your only duty as a parent is to make sure your kid doesn’t kill themselves?

When Kiernen strikes another child, Ms. Keller asks him what he’s feeling and whether he’d like to express his anger or frustration in another way, such as using words or hitting a pillow.

She tells him it’s not okay to hit others, but she and her husband, Josh, do not force Kiernen to say he’s sorry. “If he’s going to apologize, we want it to be authentic,” Ms. Keller says.

My opinion on this is that these children are going to grow up completely anti-social and lacking any real coping mechanisms and boundaries. And that affects everybody. In my opinion this fosters as much damage on a child than what the opposite does, which is parenting by control and humiliation. I also think these parents lack child rearing skills themselves.

I have been a victim of some of this type of parenting which has haunted me my entire life. My mother was completely submissive and that’s not what I needed as a child. I didn’t appreciate raising myself and while I had to find my own coping mechanisms in life, they have not come without a dire cost and consequence as a deficit in my self esteem and my ability to relate to other people.

Plus, it’s just more work to actually work with a child and teach him rather than let him them do whatever he wants. This labeling only allows gives you an excuse to tell your friends, family and neighbors that you’re evoking this whole new parenting approach instead of taking the time and effort required to raise your children the right way.

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Nonetheless, the one thing I do recall learning is that I’m not the only one out there with such a span between my children.

For some, that new baby when the other baby was still a baby was a surprise. A happy surprise, no doubt, but a surprise nonetheless.

Close. For others, it was a conscious decision painstakingly choreographed. There is much talk of the children being “close” to one another (to which I’ve always suspected they ACTUALLY meant “close enough to poke an eye out.”)

There are also many in the “get it over with all at once” camp. As if childrearing were really just an elaborate hazing ritual or rite of (painful) passage between graduation from high school or college and that sporty little roadster you’ve got your eye on for your upcoming mid-life crisis.

The truth is that when my firstborn was very small, the fear that I wouldn’t have another child who was as wonderful as he kept me from trying. When he turned one and we hadn’t managed to break or harm him in any discernible way, we felt confident enough to want even more of these tiny humans around. They are so intoxicating, these small people dependent on us for every bit of their survival. What’s not to love about that? So you go for it and have another one!

Then for many years after you swear that your children will never, ever GROW UP.

Then they do.

Age Gauge. The next time you’re at a social gathering where there are many families with youngsters in attendance, try to decipher how old the children are solely by looking at their parents.

The parents of infants are particularly easy to spot. They are the ones who have not showered in two weeks because they have not yet figured out how to simultaneously shower and monitor the baby’s every breath. Toddler parents are marginally cleaner and somewhat more rested. They also have amazing upper body strength at this stage. (The parents - not the toddlers). Feeding a child with more waving limbs than an octopus and wrangling reluctant 2-year-olds into the bathtub is not for the weak limbed.

You can identify the parents of 3-year-olds by the shell-shocked, glazed terror in their eyes. They have been lulled into a false sense of accomplishment over having survived the “terrible twos.” Little did they know that “the threes” make the “terrible twos” seem like a year with Ghandi. Two year olds are downright levelheaded when stacked up against a three year old’s all-powerful combination of iron will and complete unreasonableness.

Parents of four to eight year olds are easy to spot. They begin virtually every sentence with the word “because.”

Now, if you see a parent who is perpetually choked up, teary eyed over the nostalgia of a macaroni studded finger painting and gushing about every moment of parenthood to date - even the sleepless nights and toddler tantrums - that person’s child is almost ten.

An inevitable corner is on the horizon. The baby is undeniably a kid. Moreover, a “big kid” at that. Soon will come an entirely new experience - a whole LIFE - apart from his parents.

I know because my son is “almost ten” and I feel “almost” ready to deal with that.

I mean it when I say “almost.”

Heart. I’m sorry but my heart just KNOWS that we brought him home from the hospital last week. I can clearly recall that tiny little pink ball of a person all cloudy eyed and unable to hold up his own head. How can it be almost ten years ago that we drove 25 miles an hour all the way home for fear he’d just snap clean in half if we had to brake suddenly? Wasn’t it just last week that his entire life’s goal seemed to be digging to China in his sandbox? Where did THAT kid go?

Oh, that’s right, he’s “almost ten.” And because of my insistence on having my children “close” together – his baby sister is no “baby” and she’s right behind him.

Thus, there are no sippy cups here. No diaper bags. No cheerios in my pockets anymore. My childrens’ world is ever widening.

So the parent with the misty eyes and the crazy swings between excitement for her child’s future in the world and nostalgia for the days when his world was only as big as her arms looks eerily familiar.

Her baby is “almost ten” and she’s “almost ready” to admit that.

Almost. 

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If I were to write a job description for a Stay-At-Home Parent position, the results would be very different depending on the season. The list of bullet points for Spring/Summer employment would include trips to the public pool, multiple playgrounds, walks, lazy naps, sweaty heads and red-faced children, ice cream trucks, and, most importantly, interaction with other adults. Sure, it would also include the intense heat, overtired and cranky tantrums, and long days that must be filled without school, but with that comes fresh air and kids who, at the end of the day, have happily exerted themselves doing exactly what they should be doing.

The Winter version of the exact same position though? It’s not pretty. The occupying of our children’s attention for the duration of the day while keeping them at home is daunting and exhausting. After a few days of it, pretty much everyone is stir-crazy and must escape the confines of crayon crafts and train tracks. But adventurer beware, because once you step outside that door with your kids you have opened yourself up to the plethora of germs - bacterial and viral - lurking on every surface. Days on end will be spent with the family lolling around on couches and in blankets, pooping, vomiting, crying for it to stop.

Once recovered you will just enter the cycle again. Several days will be spent indoors as you think you can handle the season and keep things interesting with various projects and games and absolutely no social contact for anyone. But three days in and you’ll be running for any kind of crowded, indoor activity in the area, only to bring the plague back to your house, yet again. Watching your young children hurl is enough to make anyone want to become a hermit, locking the doors and shutting the windows for the duration of the season, but we know that’s not good for them either.

It’s about 59 degrees today. Maybe I’ll open the windows. If I pretend it’s Spring early, will that make it so?

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Oh, the tears and the pleading eyes.  She was looking at me with such desperation - please, Mummy, tell the dentist to take these yucky cotton things out and let’s go home, alright?  Please?  The tears were streaming out of her eyes and pooling in her ears, and she gripped my fingers as though she was hanging ten feet above shark-infested waters and begging me to pull her up.  The dentist had assured her it would be a quick ‘pinch’ as the needle went in, it would only last a few seconds, then a second needle, then she’d be done.

As the needle moved towards her reluctantly open mouth, Madeleine’s left hand flew up and hit the dentist’s hand, causing the dentist to stab the thumb of her other hand.  It happened so fast I hadn’t even realised she’d done it until the dentist made a joke of it.

Half an hour later it was all over, the dentist’s thumb had started to wake up and the little tooth that had been pulled easily from Madeleine’s mouth was in an envelope to take home for the Tooth Fairy.  I said something about the dentist I used to go to when I was at school, and the dentist’s assistant smiled and saidshe used to work at one of those school clinics, and you hardly ever heard any of the little ones cry or squeal, because all of them wanted to show their friends how brave and tough they were.  In fact, she told me, it was a very deliberate ploy on the part of the dentist to bring those kids into the clinic in groups of three or four, and the dentist would always pick out the toughest-looking kid and do them first, so the others could see how easy it was.

I suppose, way back then, I would have liked to see my mother in that room with me, holding my hand and telling me it would be OK.  But standing there next to Madeleine last week, trying to calm her down, I really did feel as though my presence was actually making things worse.  Certainly the dentist’s assistant thought so!

But sometimes you really do need your Mummy.  I’m glad I could be there.

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I used to think so too. Then I had a son

Difference. The moment our ten month old scooted himself across the floor while making engine noises without ever being “taught” to do so, I knew my theory had some holes. When he sidestepped my domestic disarmament policy by turning every sweet baby doll, cuddly stuffed toy, and piece of toast into a weapon, I had to concede that there might be a little something to this innate gender difference theory.

Our daughter, born two years later, would prove to be a girl who loves art, glitter, stuffed animals, and pretty things. In short, she is a girlie-girl Yet, she is also an athlete. Strong. Tough. Fast.

Forget the weaker sex. She would truly have to have a bone sticking out or be actively on fire to stop what she was doing and seek aid. After her last soccer game she reported quite nonchalantly that a member of the opposing team had stepped on her hand. She hastened to assure us that ‘it’s okay because he didn’t mean to do it. He was trying to kick me when I was laying on the ball is all.”

Oh, well, SURE.

Girl power indeed.

This is not to say that some gender stereotypes aren’t rooted in truth.

Style. Our daughter on any given morning will manage almost effortlessly to put together a fetching outfit out of nothing but glitter barrettes and pure air. At six she had no wallet, no makeup, no cell phone, no money, yet had a purse to match nearly every outfit. Most she had purchased herself at yard sales, so committed was she to accessorizing on a budget. On any given day her shoes are cuter than mine.

I’ll concede that I think she came that way.

Our son, despite my YEARS of attempting to teach him self-sufficiency, will stand outside my bathroom door nearly every single morning and shout “Mom, what colors go with brown pants?” Ten years into dressing himself and he is still sincerely without a clue as to what he can wear that will not get him laughed out of the fifth  grade (not that the other BOYS would notice if he dressed himself like Bozo the Clown, but the girls are growing more discerning every day).

He can get straight A’s, read Treasure Island in almost one sitting, beat virtually any video game known to man, move a soccer ball like greased lightning and yet still cannot discern that green stripes and blue plaid are best not worn simultaneously?

Honey, that is all man.

I like to think that someday my lovely daughter-in-law will roll her eyes, exasperated, as she must help my son – her husband – dress himself. I will share at that moment such a bond with her because I’ve been dressing my husband for years. Before any occasion requiring him to dress even slightly better than what is required to do yard work, he will stand in our bedroom and announce, “so what am I wearing?”

This is not an idle “gee what should I wear today?” muse such as that a female might utter as she peruses the possibilities. No. What Mr. Wonderful means is how am I, his wife, planning to dress him? This cuts out all the time wasted with him dressing himself and my asking pointedly “you weren’t planning to wear that were you?” Now we just go right to the point. Khaki goes with black but not grey. Black slacks are not worn with brown shoes. White socks go with nothing.

Thus I know all too well that my son cannot help it. He’s male. He will probably be asking some woman what color shirt matches his pants when he dresses for my funeral in what I hope is fifty years.

Thus I have learned that genetically, a child is a unique package of possibilities. Boys will be boys and girls will be girls and while there are strengths inherent in both - the latter are generally better dressed.

That said, if I’m ever unable to do so myself, forget all that “when I’m old I shall wear purple!” nonsense. Me, I’m letting my daughter pick out my clothes.

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Now that I’ve gotten my mother’s attention, I’ll confess that I think my mother raised me right. I mean she had some suspect DNA to work with AND it was the seventies. The problem is that well into my thirties I have managed to maintain the spirit, sense of drama, and utter lack of self-control of a thirteen-year-old girl. (No disrespect to any lovely and self-possessed  thirteen-year-old girls intended or implied).

Sassy. How else to explain that while I struggle mightily to be a Role Model For My Children I fail so miserably at it? My mother (she of the aforementioned struggling to raise me right fame) spends an inordinate amount of time reminding me that while I tend to THINK I have a “poker face” and remain cool, calm, and collected under duress, I am very much mistaken. When angered or annoyed, I have a certain narrowing of the eye and set to the jaw that virtually guarantees that anyone in the immediate vicinity becomes convinced that I am quite possibly rabid. I am also prone to mood swings, pouting, and sassy back-talk.

See what I mean? Thirteen-year-old girl.

Hard. I want to be the bigger person, I really do, but sometimes it just so HARD.

It is extremely important to me (and me alone) that we not have clutter on the dining room table. Ever. I barely tolerate dinner plates on there. To my mind, dining room table clutter is the hallmark of complete anarchy. Therefore, I aim to make my home happy by terrorizing any family member foolish enough to besmirch the blessedly empty plane of the tabletop. Anything left out will broadcast its repulsiveness in my face until I question their love for me and then passive-aggressively act like it’s no big deal until I can pull it out of my arsenal of resentment and use it to prove a point on how they have wronged me. You might call this “playing the martyr.” I call it “strategy.”

Harm. I want to be known as one of those laid-back, devil-may-care, unflappable types but that is simply not my nature. You’d have better success teaching my dog to dance.

I think I may have to hang up “role model” and aim a little bit lower. I’m thinking “just do no harm.”

Our son recently received a drum set because my husband and I are insane. He, as eleven year olds are prone to do, was banging away on it in what might someday sound a little bit like music. Maybe.

Our daughter, a nine year old twinkle with a sparkle in her eye and love in her heart for all creation, drew herself up ramrod straight, threw a hand on her hip, and said sternly and with no END of exasperation in a cunningly (yet chillingly) perfect rendition of ME “my ONLY QUIET TIME and you have to START with that!”

He responded by sharing with her his opinion of her musical critique. Shockingly, he wasn’t entirely flattering to her. (That may be a little bit - okay a whole lot - of “me” too).

She huffed her breath and exclaimed: “if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything AT ALL!” and punctuated her last two proclamations of peace with a swift punch squarely to her brother’s arm.

Apparently, a right hook is a heck of a lot “nicer” than verbal abuse.

Our eyes met, role model to recipients: he, she, and I.

Then we all three rolled our eyes and laughed and laughed and laughed.

Yeah. I know. They really should apologize, but what can I do? Their mama obviously didn’t raise them right either.

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It’s not easy being perfect.

Just ask my daughter’s soccer team. Those kids are on FIRE! They played an entire outdoor season from late summer to early fall and NEVER LOST A GAME. Not ever. Not once. Flush with their success they went ahead and continued an indoor soccer session with the same stunning success.

Granted, the players are all 7, 8, or 9 years old. Hardly World Cup fodder. Yet, in some blessed combination of grace, athleticism, and the alignment of the planets, fourteen children met on a randomly assembled team and their skills worked together. Perfectly.

Of course, in some cases it was almost embarrassing. They got too good too fast and, as a result, essentially smoked the other teams (sweet and darling as those other players were). Our league has rules designed to protect the egos of small children learning to love the sport. As a result, one team is not allowed to score more than five points ahead of an opposing team. It’s a good plan, really. In theory.

Up. My daughter’s team was routinely up by five points in the first 15 minutes of an hour-long game. The children would then gamely play “keep away” for the remainder of the hour, passing the ball back and forth among their teammates to the increasing frustration of the opposite team.

Nothing demoralizing in THAT right?

Lest I sound completely obnoxious, first let me say I’m not one of those parents that suffers any delusion that our daughter gets even an iota of her athletic prowess from me. Oh Heavens no. I have two left feet, probably one halfway coordinated arm, and almost no competitive drive when it comes to athletics. Anyone who has seen me play soccer is well aware that I have none of my daughter’s skills. Seriously, there is nothing so sobering as the day when you realize that the child you nourished and nurtured has surpassed you. For some it comes at 16, 18, or perhaps after college?

I had the startling realization that when it comes to athletics - my nine year old can kick my ass.

Of course, I’m also human and as such it was hard not to revel in the glow of the children’s success. We were the team to beat! The team that every other team would fail to beat week in and week out. Still, as much as we – I - enjoy those moments of pride, as the weeks – and wins – went on, there was a growing discomfort too.

What would happen when they lose?

As parents and coaches we echo time and again that’s it’s not whether you win or lose but how you play the game.

That’s all well and good, but what if you play the game remarkably well and never actually lose?

This actually worried me.

I like winners. Don’t we all? But I’m a huge - HUGE - believer in the awesome power of failure. The need, sometimes, to lose.

Learn. How hard it is to cope with always being on top? What stress comes, exactly, from being forever lauded for your accomplishments? What life lessons are learned in endless glory and good times? .With failure comes strength my friends. Live it. Learn it.

So how does a tried and true soccer mom go about rooting against her own child’s team?

Awkward.

I didn’t root against them, of course, but before each game I’d wonder if maybe, this time, they would finally meet their match.

And last week, for the first time – ever – they did. The clock had run. The game was done. The scoreboard clearly read 1-0 and most decidedly NOT in our favor.

What would our kids do? They’d never lost before. Would there be tears? Blame? Recriminations?

Did they even know how to lose?

The gasp and collective holding of our parental breaths was almost audible.

As the teams left the field, our players walked off shin-guard to shin-guard with the team that had just bested them.

Would there be a throw down? Tantrums? Harsh words? A winning streak had been vanquished after all!

So what did our newly minted “losers” do? They said “good game, “you were awesome,” and even waved to their opponents while saying “thanks!”

Lesson learned. You win some, sure. And if you’re lucky, you lose some too. As it turns out, if you win with grace and dignity you remain a winner forever. In everything that matters, even if not the scoreboard.

I have never been so proud to be the mother of a real loser.

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I know, blasphemy. Today’s “involved moms” are all about getting down on the floor and playing with their children. Building blocks, zooming cars, and taking part in elaborate tea parties where mommy wiles away the day sipping air out of a dusty cup and faux-nibbling mud pies for fun.

Fun. Sure, that’s all well and good and who doesn’t enjoy a rousing rendition of “this little piggy went to market” with some sweet lil’ ole’ baby toes from time to time? I love working on craft projects, baking, or reading with my kids. It’s the actual child’s play that gets me down. There really ought to be a warning on all this quality time. This “mommy and me” stuff is simply a gateway drug to harder stuff. Namely, being forced to feign and interest in your older children’s collections, trading cards, and video games.

There, I said it. I am not now, nor have I ever been all that invested in Pokemon. Pokemon is a cartoon, trading card, and video game phenomenon that has become an empire second only to Microsoft in terms of market presence. We have Pokemon cards, movies, bedding, clothing, stuffed toys, action figures, and for all I know Pokemon cards are being actively traded on the New York Stock Exchange. At some point I believe their value definitely outperformed GM.

Yet, despite nearly a decade of near constant exposure to the characters, I still don’t know all my Pokemon characters beyond that one is some sort of turtle (maybe). This is not my fault, however, because what I do know is that Pokemon characters are forever evolving into something else. Just when I understood what a Snorlax was, he/she/it up and morphed into something else! How am I to keep up? It’s all I can do to keep up with members of Congress when they pull those kind of tricks.

Transform. Worse yet, my children, bless their optimistic little hearts – actually believe that I care about these transformations. Many the times a remarkable train of thought has been derailed by cries of “mom come quick!” Well, there’s one born every minute and I am the mother who is perpetually a sucker for any panicked cry of “Mom!” Thus I rush off to find out that snorklewhosits is transforming into butterflibberjibit (or something) before my very eyes!

Whoopee. (Not).

Bore. The thing is, I don’t want to let on that video game characters bore me to tears. I want at the very least the credit for feigning an interest in this stuff. It would not to do to become the mothering version of “look kid, she’s just not that into you.” I’ve just never found video games – or their characters – very engaging. Yet, I don’t want my children to think I don’t find THEM fascinating. I mean who among us hasn’t wanted to go on and on and on about our chosen hobby or that great movie we just saw? You get me started on digital photography or scrapbooking and you might find yourself plotting to chew off your own limb to escape. I know how that goes. Thus, I want to give my children the same joy in sharing. I want to be that parent that is hip, cool, and open to new and exciting things. I want them to trust me with secrets big and small. I just can’t help but wish that so much of our sharing didn’t seem to happen over the painstaking explanation of yet another not-so-exciting plot twist in the world of Pokemon, YuGiOh and any and all characters on MarioKart racing.

Maybe my real problem is that they don’t make cartoon characters that bridge the generation and literary gap?

When someone calls me over to witness the exciting transformation of a videogame version of Scarlett O’Hara into someone Rhett can really love - I’m in. I could totally see a Steinbeck trading card game – I see you one Lenny “Of Mice and Men” and raise you two Joads from “The Grapes of Wrath” maybe?

Game. Until then I’m that mom you’ll see gamely pretending to know (and love) all the various little cartoon characters that morph in and out of our lives. You see, even if I don’t care a whit about those pesky cartoon characters – there are a few little human characters around here that I care for very much. Interestingly enough, their transformation is endlessly entertaining, even if their hobbies aren’t.

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The relationship that I thought was going to last forever has fallen apart, largely at my own hands.

Friends and family are taking sides.

Stuff is being divided.

Schedules are being drawn up.

Lawyers and therapists and judges, oh my!

Mommy needs a drink. And in a bad way.

But is it okay? Have I earned it? Am I sending my kids a message that by knocking a few back, I’m going to make things better? I know that pomegranate martini I’m lusting for isn’t going to fix my marriage, nor will it keep my mother from telling me that I’m making the worst mistake of my life.

But gosh darn it, it sure as hell would taste REALLY good about now.

Paul Clarke posted this piece in The New York Times this week. He explores the impacts of adult alcohol consumption in the presence of children. He observes that, for many of us, our initial exposure to the delicious delight is as a drug, not a a drink. With underage partiers stowing stolen bottles in cars for late-night bonfires and house parties with parents in absentia. The thrill of doing something “bad” and not getting caught adds a new dimension to consumption - one that makes the drink into more of an “act” than merely a beverage.

I was raised in a home where, like the author, there was really no mystique about alcohol. Dad would have the occasional screwdriver at a wedding or card party at the house. We always had Southern Comfort on hand for my Grandma Freda to sip while she taught me how to play King’s Corners. Mom was never afraid to douse spaghetti and lasagna sauces with a giant jug of Gallo, while spilling a bit into a tumbler to quench her thirst while cooking.

I was always allowed a taste, but the flavor never did too much for me. I still can’t explain how I’m half-Canadian and I can’t stand the taste of beer (sorry Moosehead, I’ll pass). Yes, I had a fake ID (Sorry Mom! I’ve disappointed you yet again.), but my desire was for access to where my of-age friends were, not the drink itself. Although I was known to tie one on every now and again, I was the one who was usually holding some poor sorority sister’s ponytail while she prayed to the porcelain goddess. I saw firsthand the price for overindulgence, and experienced my share of it now and again.

So how do I handle it now that I have kids? Yes, Homer and I drink in front of our kids. We jokingly refer to it as “mommy juice” and “daddy juice.” When they get old enough, we’ll probably let them have a sip now and again, like our parents did for us. Do I expect them to make stupid mistakes with alcohol? Of course. But I am responsible for teaching our kids that all food and drinks can be okay in moderation and enjoyed responsibly.

After all, too many Oreos means that I’m holding another ponytail over the porcelain goddess. This time, though it’s on a five year old.

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Before. Drop-off really shouldn’t be that difficult. Or wouldn’t be if the architect who designed our school didn’t harbor a deep hatred of commuting parents, cleverly combined with an obvious sadistic bent. It is not the fault of our very dedicated and capable school staff that there are approximately 400 students enrolled in our elementary school and a drop-off lane that accommodates, at best, ten cars. I have lost count of how many years of my life have been wiled away in parking lot gridlock as we sit, bumper-to-bumper, with only the cushion of the “my child was an honor student” bumper stickers between us.

The parking lot architect’s culpability notwithstanding, it is clear that the crux of the problem is operator error. I have seen the enemy and it is us. The parents.

I have offered (repeatedly) to give free lessons to fellow parents on proper drop-off procedures. In an appalling lack of foresight the administration has yet to take me up on this. I see no reason not to share with my fellow parents that it is not necessary to put the vehicle in park and watch appreciatively as precious strolls all the way from the curb to the school doors just a few feet away. Yes I know your wee one is the most darling child on the planet and you simply must take a moment (or three to five minutes) to admire the way they walk. Nonetheless, the rest of us would like to get our children into the building sometime prior to graduation. I prefer to start barking orders at the children as we round into the parking lot. “Unbuckle!” “Kiss Mommy!” and “Bail! Bail!” all figure prominently in my syllabus. I soften this with “I love you!” and “Tuck and roll, baby, tuck and roll!” I’m not heartless.

You shouldn’t even think of slowing down in front of the “No Parking, Standing, Stopping, Pausing, Contemplating, or Pondering and If You’ve Read this Far You’ve Violated Something ” sign. Rumor has it that past transgressors were required to stand in the corner at PTO meetings wearing a scarlet stop sign.

I know, I started those rumors myself.

After. During my foray into the after-school gridlock, I park the mom-mobile and walk up to the school. The line for pick-up sometimes stretches to the parking lot like the overnight campers vying for opening night concert tickets outside TicketmasterÔ.  I begin to question the merit of just leaving the children there for the duration and taking them home on weekends. Nonetheless, this is sometimes my favorite time of day because good gossip is ripe for the picking. It’s kind of like a town hall meeting without all that idle chit-chat about road resurfacing and whether or not we should repaint the fire-truck.

Eventually I am full up on which parent embarrassed himself at which ball game and who may have had a little too much party punch up at the VFW on Saturday night and, sated, I shuffle my way to the head of the line to sign on the dotted line. With my signature I indicate that yes, I still want the same two children I dropped off six hours earlier. Properly documented, I then wait for them to feed my children through a single door, single file. This part is really rather fun - like a cattle chute, with Hello Kitty backpacks.

Children in tow we then walk back across the parking lot, dodging the chest-high bumpers and clouds of exhaust of prior pickups that, judging by their velocity, have Very Important Places To Go and can’t slow down for anything so mundane as a speed bump - or a second-grader.

Clearly, grade school commuting is not for the faint of heart. If I survive to the end of the school year, I may, just once, let the rebel in myself finally come out. On that last day I might do the unthinkable and throw caution to the wind. I might, in fact, STOP in the drop-off lane for A FULL THIRTY SECONDS OR MORE (putting the vehicle in “park” even) to kiss my kids goodbye.

This is a carpool parent’s idea of living on the edge. It’s not much, but it keeps me off the streets.

If only because I’m stuck in kindergarten traffic and couldn’t reach the street if I tried.

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As a teenager, I read enough of my next door neighbour’s Sweet Valley High books to learn that American kids often spent their summer vacations away at Camp.  ‘Camp’ sounded like a magical place, filled with awesome activities like ‘hiking’ and ‘gridiron’ and pre-pubescent boys with long hair and bell-bottomed jeans.  And that ‘Camp’ lasted weeks and weeks at a time, so long in fact that you actually came to miss your parents.  Wow.

School starts on February 2nd and I can confidently tell you that my children have spent these past few weeks of summer not missing me so much as wishing I was not around.  I have taken a break from the corporate ladder just long enough to become a problem to my children.  They are sick to death of me.  I’m everywhere - driving them to the Mall, taking them to the pool, chaperoning them on camping trips to the beach and organising for their friends to come over and play for hours on end.  I just wont leave them alone.  Every time they come into the kitchen, I’m already there, preparing cold drinks or cutting up watermelon.  They go into the lounge to chill out, and I’m arranging a new selection of DVDs I’ve just rented for them at the local video library.  They go out in the backyard to muck around with the garden hose and sprinklers, and I’m hanging their wet swimsuits and beach towels on the line.  I’m everywhere!  I’m totally in the way!  I’m not giving them a moment of peace!

The kids are going to be really, really glad when they can go back to school and they can get out of my face.  And next Christmas holidays, I’ll be expecting both of them to beg me to send them to Camp, or its Australian equivalent, so they can enjoy some parent-free time for once.

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No, not my husband and I. We’re cool. What I’m talking about is myself and my son. When it comes to cleaning, my eleven year old son thinks a horizontal surface is a space onto which he can drop trading cards, old homework, various action figures, and tiny plastic parts barely visible to the naked eye belonging to erector sets he does not even remember owning.

 He calls these spaces “my room just how I like it.” 

I call these spaces dumpsters. 

No Change. Ladies, if you are reading this, let me set you straight: not only is it quite nearly impossible to ever “change” a man, you barely have a fighting chance even when you’ve had him in your clutches since birth. 

Talk about a “self made man.” I made this (future) man and I have had no more luck in “teaching” him to be naturally neat than I would have had in teaching my dog to tap dance.  

My son is a good boy. He’s a lovely person if I do say so myself and we get many compliments on him. Overall, we think he’s a keeper. Then I walk into his room and I just about want to cry. Or light a match. 

Mounds. There are simply mounds everywhere. Mounds of clothing (some clean, some dirty, the problem is in knowing which is which?) Mounds of bedding. Mounds of colorful plastic that must be part of something terrifically creative – or terribly deranged. This boy has never seen a horizontal surface he didn’t think would be perfect to pile something – anything – upon. It’s as if the very sight of a clean, uncluttered flat surface leaves him somehow incomplete.  

I have entered the room, looked around, and unable to discern signs of life been forced to call out (slightly panicked) for him. He will pop up from under some pile or other and say “I’m right here mom!” as if the small bulge in the teetering mound of wadded up laundry, bedding, a drum set, desk chair, and a couple hundred pounds of Pokemon cards should CLEARLY have indicated his presence all along. 

I understand that some mothers just throw in the towel (and pillowcase, dirty laundry, and crusty bowls stashed under the bed). I, however, am no pushover. I’ve tried playing the heavy, but my son’s room is enough to make “don’t make me come in there!” less a strong, disciplinary missive and more a pathetic plea for mercy.  

Mold. Hope springs eternal and I really thought I could mold a man (and what, after all, is a nine year old boy but simply a mini-man sans car keys and a career by which to bankroll his own cleaning staff?) From the time he was very small I would cheerfully demonstrate how much “fun” it could be to clean up after ourselves. 

I was the Improv mommy! I pantomimed that lying Barney the Dinosaur in sing-song “clean up, clean up, everybody everywhere, clean up, clean up everybody do their share!” The awesome power of a purple dinosaur combined with my can’t-carry-a-tune-in-a-bucket singing notwithstanding,  I was shocked to discover as young as age three that my son absorbed the spirit, if not the letter of the thing. Grabbing one of the toy baskets I would say brightly “let’s clean up just like Barney says!” and my son, light of my life, would respond happily and with unbridled enthusiasm “okay!”  

Within minutes he would be plopped down with a book, toy truck, or errant dust mote he spied floating by and cleaning nothing much at all. 

Forever committed to a lost cause, I once attempted to use logic (never a good idea on a man of any age): “Honey, doesn’t Barney say “everybody do their share?” Who do you think everybody is sweetie?” 

To which my son replied cheerily and with utter sincerity: “you?” 

He was three. I let him live. 

I love my son and he has many strengths. He is thoughtful, punctual, and kind. I fear nonetheless that I have given birth to the messier half of the Odd Couple. My son is Oscar to my Felix. 

Worse, his trash is becoming my bag. Or baggage. 

I can only apologize to any future daughter-in-law I may be blessed with and hope that she’ll love me anyway when I say I tried dear. I tried. 

Until then, when it comes to my son and I and our wildly different definitions of “clean” I can only wonder “can this relationship be saved?” 

More importantly, can old homework, torn trading cards, and Legos be saved too?

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Something is undermining our efforts but I’m not sure where the feed is coming from. Yesterday while Aaron and I were playing, my almost-five-year old asked with hands-on-hips, “Who’s the boss here?” I replied with a laugh, “I am.” He got very serious and sternly explained, “No, Mommy! Only boys can be bosses, not girls.”

Oh, really? He earned himself a little chat. Think he’s too young to start reading Margaret Thatcher’s biography as a bedtime story?

It wasn’t too much later that I was donning an apron and contemplating spices when Aaron asked, “Mommy, what are you doing?”

“I’m going to make dinner.” (something my husband normally does)

“But Mommy, girls don’t cook.”

My hypocritical self left this one completely alone. Someday my future daughter-in-law will thank me.

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The studies they cite show that toddlers who are given clues to find hidden objects via TV are less successful at finding the objects than the children who are given the clues in person. They summarize by saying:

“So while toddlers can understand what’s going on on TV, they don’t think about what they see on TV the same way older kids and adults do. They don’t connect it back to the real things they encounter in their world, so they can’t learn from TV. Whatever it is your toddler gets from watching TV, these researchers say, it’s not learning.”

I see this phenomenon in my kids clearly. They can both watch an episode of Play with me Sesame and have very different experiences. When my 5 year-old daughter watches the program, she gets up, sings along, dances, and responds to the character’s questions. When my nearly two-year-old son watched the same program alone the other day, he sat mesmerized by the 20-minute program - the lights, the colors, the sounds, but he clearly didn’t appreciate the humor and didn’t understand when to sing and dance with the monstery muppets. When the two of them watch together, I used to think that my son mimicked the program, but now I’m realizing that he was modeling his response after his sister.

So, why do we park our toddler’s in front of the boob tube if it’s not really enhancing their cognitive development? Why are products like Baby Einstein still a staple in nearly every baby shower across the country? Well, while I don’t expect my toddler’s brain to get bigger with Elmo’s help, he is entertained and out of my hair for about 20 minutes while I can change my clothes and start dinner.

After all, it’s not as if I’m telling him to play with my steak knives, right?

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