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Posts Tagged ‘children’
I never really wanted to be a dad.
There, I wrote it. It looks strange on the page. Kind of like writing something pornographic – it’s honest, brutal and meant for my readers only. It’s not that I don’t like kids – I like kids. I certainly liked other people’s kids. In my pre-parenting days, I believed kids were like kittens or puppies – you played with them, fed them and when they shit on the floor you handed them back to their owners.
Most of my experiences with other people’s children involves a round of martinis first. Properly hammered, I fail to comprehend what these mealy-mouth parents are complaining about – I mean their kids seemed perfectly nice to me. Little Luca, Jack or Felix never gets on my nerves after two stiff ones. Hell, I could play SHOOTS AND LADDERS for weeks if I’m drunk. As a matter of fact – I am a far better player drunk than not drunk. I get super competitive and never let any of the little kids win. Letting little kids win is Bullshit – if you’re going to play SHOOTS AND LADDERS with me PLAY-TO-WIN or don’t play at all!
I can’t tell you how many times my son Ethan would go to pieces after I kicked his ass at SHOOTS AND LADDERS or CANDYLAND. No one could ever accuse me of being a ‘graceful winner.’ I take my victory lap around his room and enact my YOU SUCK victory dance. He usually doesn’t see the humor in it – he charges out of the room, tears streaming down his face uttering some nonsense about me cheating. Now, I can assure you that I NEVER cheat. Sure, I may keep a PRINCESS FROSTINE card under the table now and again – I may have even moved COOKIE MONSTER ahead a color or two in CANDYLAND – but this in the interest of moving the game along.
So, like I said, I never wanted kids. How did I arrive here? How did I wind up with this alien child whose moods, desires and interests shift on a minute-by-minute basis? One second he’s loving, devoted and polite – the next he’s spiteful, mean, and manipulative.
My husband George likes to churn out ‘useful’ parenting chestnuts such as ‘The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. You – you have to model the behavior you want Ethan to emulate. He lacks the ability to decipher your sarcasm and bitterness. You need to speak from your heart and use ‘I’ statements such as I FEEL SAD, I FEEL FRUSTRATED, I FEEL ANGRY. Therein lies your salvation.”
Yes – George actually talks like that. Enchanting isn’t it? I can’t tall you how many times I’ve wanted to shove a Popsicle in his mouth during one of our many parenting arguments. Is George right – of course he is! Who gives a flying fuck? You try telling a hungry eight year old already engaged in an ‘You’re-absolutely-not-getting-a-Frappacino’ meltdown that you’re feeling ‘frustrated’ by his behavior. I’m sorry, but that shit just doesn’t work.
When we’re bored, my son Ethan and I play a little game in carpool called ‘Let’s talk about our feelings.’ It usually involves me imitating George and using lots of ‘I’ statements, “What are your feelings about my feelings not feeling the same as your feelings?” Ethan usually puts his hands to his ears, cackles and then makes his own ‘I’ statements such as ‘I’m feeling like I need to run away from home,’ or ‘I’m wishing you would stop pretending you have feelings.’ I laugh to myself and realize that in the game of parenting, I am a mere pawn and my son is in fact the grand master.
My son Ethan spends alot of time asking me about my nuclear family. He seems particularly interested in my parent’s marriage. I find this interesting and alarming at the same time. I’m pleased that he’s developed an interest in his family, but frightened that his curiosity has been piqued by my parent’s bilious marriage. Like a beautifully wrapped Christmas present with nothing inside – my parent’s union on the surface appeared shiny and tantalizing, but below the glittering shell existed an emotional frozen tundra. To my eyes, my parents always seemed a bit out of sorts – my mother acted like my father’s faithful servant, constantly striving for his approval and affection yet seldom receiving it. Like any under-appreciated employee who receives little compensation for their life’s work, my mother vented her frustration and unhappiness on those weaker than herself, her children.
Unlike my son Ethan’s privileged, candy-colored childhood that consists of Palm Springs weekend homes, attendance at a prestigious charter school founded by his two dads, participation in a plethora of seemingly compulsory ‘enrichment’ activities, and basking in the glow of never-ending parental love and support, my own childhood was not a happy one. The kindest emotion I can remember from either my mother or father growing up was indifference. When I was 8 years old – I made the important decision to run away from home and take up residence at the Cherry Hill Mall. Granted, not a good plan – but a plan nonetheless. I must have looked odd, an eight year old child perusing the fine linens and silver clutching a small red suitcase. As I pretended to shop, a kindly Gimbel’s saleslady (remember them?) asked me where my mommy was – I replied she had been in a tragic car accident and was in a persistent vegetative state. There were no ‘Amber Alerts’ in those days so the saleslady told me how sorry she was and assured me that either my mommy would get better soon or my dad would probably remarry and I would have a new mommy who wasn’t in a coma. I shuddered at the thought.
The shopping mall closed promptly at 9, and with no place to go, suitcase in hand, I reluctantly trudged home tired and hungry. I snuck in the house through the garage and silently joined my mother who at the time was sitting in a our family room ferociously knitting and watching Donny and Marie. As I entered the room, she glanced up as if surprised to see me. She seemed to take no notice of the suitcase.
“Well?” She asked.
“I’m hungry.”
“Again? We just had dinner.”
I had been gone for eight hours and not a single member of my family noticed. Clearly, the police had not been called. There were no worried detectives scouring our backyard searching for obscure clues or relentlessly questioning the coterie of suspicious, shady neighbors that lived in our neighborhood’s manicured homes. Light years from worried, my mother hadn’t even noticed my absence.
“Sit down,” she said wearily, “I’ll make you a sandwich – I don’t want you messing up the kitchen.”
(To be Continued)
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