Horrible Parent

I’m a horrible parent.


Okay, now that I’ve said that you can all take me off that pedestal. I realize that some of you mistakenly take me for some kind of highly motivated, extremely organized super-woman. In my dreams. But the good news is that if I admit that I’m a horrible parent, I’m probably not all that bad. I think it’s the people, who are oblivious to exactly how horrid of a parent they are, that are the truly bad parents. These are the parents that have no clue that little Johnny lies, cheats, steals and is mean to others. Or that their darling little princess is really more like Attila the Hunness around her playmates and teachers.

I am well aware of my children’s faults as well as their brilliancies. I have four, as I’ve mentioned before. Two are my step-daughters that I’ve known since 4 and 7 respectively. They are both married, and one has given me two grandchildren. One has returned to school for her nursing degree, the other has a great job at a local travel company. They had their regular, normal teenage angst, loves, hates and issues. At one point, they both moved in with their dad and I; we had weekends and holidays and trips to the airport and ferry rides before that.

My sons are still in their childhood, although my high school junior would be a bit miffed that I call him a child.

All four children have in their time lied (this is also known as fibbing, stretching or embellishing the truth, exaggerating, managing the story), avoided, picked on, been bossy to and downright mean to other children including, but not limited to their siblings. I’ve dealt with clothing issues, sharing of toys, library books that have mysteriously disappeared and just as inexplicably reappeared a year later in the other child’s room among other trials .

One daughter will forever be teased about the skip day she and her friend engineered. I was working part time then, and left for work at 9:30-ish after getting up and making sure the daughter was off to school and hubby was off to work; I would nap in bed until 9 and then take my shower. This particular morning was no different, except instead of leaving for school, the daughter snuck back into her room (or maybe never left) and her friend snuck in the house. Quietly, they called the school and phoned in the excused absence for the day. They planned to wait until I left for work and then walk to town or play around at the house or whatever skipping teenagers (that don’t get into BAD trouble) do. I’m pretty blind without my glasses, and I will never be a morning person until after my shower and a couple of cups of coffee. So, blindly (in more ways than one) I stumbled to the bathroom but heard a noise in the daughter’s room and decided to investigate. In my glass-less vision, the bed was ‘lumpy’ and there were noises that could have been cat-like, but as I watched, everything seemed to settle down so I continue with my morning routine. Until I got out of the shower, and went to get dressed when I distinctly heard giggling. I’m probably not the brightest bulb in the box, but I’ve never, ever heard a cat giggle. So, with my glasses on this time, I ventured into the teenage girl’s room and discovered my daughter trying to crawl under the bed covers – an attempt to make the unmade bed look lumpier I suppose – and she was busted. Long story short, I called her father at work and she lost her birthday celebration. We can laugh about it now, and I remind her that her daughter (or son) will probably do something very similar so she can get the full payback she deserves.

The other daughter was such a pain-in-the-neck one summer, one particular vacation, that her sister begged me to leave her at Disneyland. And never get her back. Ever. (I think if she had believed the animatronics Pirates were real she would have arranged to sell her for a profit). It was pre-teen stuff: the rides were too dumb, the lines were too long, it was too hot, the food was too yucky, she was tired of riding the rides her sister wanted, blah, blah, blah. It was a very long vacation that ended with her biting me in the arm and me slapping her mouth as I threatened to leave her there to walk home alone from the restaurant. (We’ll cover my feelings about corporal punishment in another post). Again, we laugh about it now and I threaten her with the memory of who the grandmother of her children will be.

I have a son that refused to eat hotdogs as a child. And spaghetti or pasta of any kind in any way until he was 7. He literally lived on salad, chicken nuggets and peanut butter from age 3 until about 12. We tried (and are still trying) everything from punishment, begging, bribing, counseling, reheating, tears and threats. Nothing. At this point I’m pretty sure his wedding reception will consist of Peanut Butter and Honey sandwiches (no jelly) cut into squares, with an appetizer of McDonalds or Banquet chicken nuggets. He won’t eat any other kind, including actual chicken nuggets made from home. You will have a selection of drinks including orange juice, milk and Pepsi. No juice. No alcohol. No coffee or tea. And, if he actually is able to graduate from high school, he will quite possibly be the only child who has done so without turning in homework. He does the homework; he just won’t turn it in. I’m sure his professors will be less demanding about turning in homework. And his bosses probably won’t be concerned if he completes his projects but doesn’t turn them in.

My other son has the gift of charm. Being the last, he is intensely concerned with the equality of the world around him and his goal is to make all things equal for all people, animals and things. And he can tell the most descriptive, wildly premeditated stories (lies) while getting away with it. He loves children and animals and sports and reading and taking photos and drawing. He hates sitting still, being lectured to, boring things and doing his chores. Oh, and cleaning his room will never be a skill he excels at.

So, you see I’m a horrible parent because I have children. Children, who lie, skip school, annoy their siblings and are picky eaters (among other things). And, I actually discipline, punish and make my children pay the consequences of their actions. Apparently I’m in the minority.

I’m always curious about people who ask questions like “Why does your child feel the need to lie?” I have always told myself that even though my children aren’t perfect, I have a pretty good grasp of their faults and their strengths. And I think I’ve done pretty well at figuring out the whole child-psychology part of parenting. If my child were accused of being a serial killer, an abusive husband, a pregnant teen, or a crack addict, I’d think as a parent I’d know. How can you not know your child lies? Do you honestly believe everything that comes out of their mouth? Really? Someone stole your bike but brought it back and put it in another spot – just to annoy you. Your wallet was mysteriously lifted out of your pocket but you can describe the person that did it.

I read about parents in the news that didn’t know their teen was pregnant and gave birth to a healthy, full term baby, but then left the baby in the garbage to die. How can you NOT realize your child is pregnant – and then suddenly NOT pregnant? Or the parents who “honestly” didn’t know their son was planning militant warfare on school grounds against his school mates. The strange packages from UPS and the fact that his room is always locked wasn’t a clue? Or you were surprised to hear from other people that your child is a drug dealer. Those kids that turn up at all hours of the night in expensive, loud cars are just paying back the lunch money they owe your kid. And it’s a huge surprise to you when you find out that your child is bullying, disrespecting or otherwise tormenting other children during recess, in the hallways or at the park. Because they’re always so nice at home to their siblings. I find it hard to believe that someone is actually that clueless about their child.

Although, apparently I’m as clueless as all get-out; because I believe that my child should possess manners, be nice, polite and respectful; and suffer the consequences if they aren’t. I believe that children should be punished (disciplined, reprimanded, chastised—pick your verb) for misdeeds – as often as they commit them – and as many times as it is necessary to remind them that they have strayed from the path of correctness. I’m not talking about abuse here; I’m talking about applying the board of knowledge to the seat of education on an as-needed basis. I don’t need to be my child’s friend or buddy. I need to be the person my child can trust to always tell them right from wrong. That means I won’t always be the cool parent. And I probably won’t win any “Parent of the Year” awards.

This is called parenting. Horrible or not, it is what it is.