Parenting FAIL Friday: Throwback.

If you’re on Instagram, you’re probably familiar with #tbt, or throw back Thursday. It’s a theme where you post old pictures of…whatever you want. I didn’t have any epic fails this week, so I’m taking this opportunity to kick it old school and show you that since the dawn of my parenting, I have been failing at this.

Picture a three-year-old Punkin, all snuggly in her jammies, tucked in, read to, prayed with, kissed goodnight. About an hour and a half after bedtime, I went to Punkin’s room to give her one more kiss.

I did not kiss her.

I did not touch her.

I left the room. I grabbed my camera. And I took this picture:

 

Stashed in her bed was a blue crayola marker. What I wish I had gotten a picture of was the inside of her mouth. Her teeth were blue. Her tongue was blue. I’m pretty sure her intestines were blue.

Note to self: Always check the bed. Always.

Parenting FAIL Friday: Hypocrisy.

If there is one thing this whole cancer thing has done, it’s turned me into a giant hypocrite.

Well, not just that. But I have done more things I swore I would never do than I can count. My discipline theory has always been founded on two things: consistency and follow-through. If you aren’t actually going to follow-through with a punishment or rule, don’t even mention it. That way they can’t call your bluff.

Please ignore all of that. I apparently am horribly weak and cannot even follow my own advice.

Example one: The Nerd and I are pretty strict with a lot of things. We don’t hide that. I’m not into kid bikinis, kitten heels for my 8-year-old, or TV. What they do watch is closely monitored, and we nix anything that promotes disrespect to adults, immoral/unethical lifestyles, and or general obnoxious activity. I forbid Caillou because he whines all the freaking time. And I always found SpongeBob to be annoying and inappropriate at times.

Fast forward to the first hospital stay with Goo. The long haul of 15 days worth of tests, scans, needles, morphine drips, and horror. What did we watch incessantly? SpongeBob. It was on the TV first thing every morning. I bought SpongeBob band-aids.  I looked for SpongeBob books. I totally went back on my previous years of explaining why obnoxious cartoons can influence behavior. I’m all about consistency and follow-through.

Example two: The Nerd and I try not to spoil our kids. We laughed at parents who spent hundreds of dollars on professionally catered birthday parties with bounce houses and clowns.

Goo and Smush just had birthdays. The main attraction was a bounce house. I’ve become *that* mom. (In my defense, we got it for the day for free by an amazing company who said they wanted to give back to the community, and couldn’t think of a better way than by making Goo’s wish come true. I heart them.)

Example three, and my favorite: I put up a little snarky comment on Facebook months ago when I saw this product – the iPotty.

This is a joke, right? (Photo credit: 欧黛创意)

Stickers? Sure. An M&M for successful potty-ing? Absolutely. Customized seating for use of a $500 electronic device? You are out of your mind. What are you going to do for their sweet 16, buy them an island? Good God, people. What nonsense.

Now that I got that out of the way, allow me to share with you this photo:

That would be Smush. Sitting on the potty. Playing a game on our tablet. Also, on that tablet? A SpongeBob game.

Consistency for the win.

Parenting FAIL Friday: A healthy dose of normal.

When tragedy strikes, and you’re going to be in the trenches for the long haul, the first thing that teachers/psychologists/child life specialists tell you is how critical it is to keep things as normal as possible. Every fiber of your being wants to lavish them with gifts and lollipops and magical unicorns, but if you do that not only will you have a gremlin on your hands, but you will remove the sense of security they gain from routine, discipline, and seeing that life goes on. Even with cancer.

The Nerd and I are trying very hard to do this. Goo still gets punished. The girls still have chores. They still have to eat their vegetables (although Goo’s are now slathered in butter to fatten her up). I still lose my ever-loving mind on at least a weekly basis. It’s all very healthy.

Smush is doing her part to keep things normal, too. In an attempt to obviously make Goo feel as secure as possible, she has whole heartedly embraced her role as the toddler force of destruction that one would expect from an almost three-year-old. Insider tip: Three is much, much worse than two. She’s almost there. God help me, she’s almost there.

The other day I heard her happily singing a song in the living room. I decided to peek in and listen for the lyrics, at which point I found her throwing my brand new pillows and blanket all over the room, merrily announcing:

I loooooove making messes, I love making messes!

Ahem. I’m aware. That’s why it’s taken Mommy and Daddy almost TEN YEARS to finally get something just a little bit decorative in the living room. Something that isn’t a stained or broken sofa. Or a brand new ottoman that is busted beyond repair two weeks after I purchase it. Ten years, girlfriend. Put. Those. Pillows. Back. Now. I dream of a brand spanking new, leather sectional. But that’s a HUGE ticket item, so I will continue waiting. But in the meantime, keep your grubby little hands off my pillows. Kapeesh?

Goo and Punkin got a kick out of her little display, so she decided to up the ante a few days later. She bounded out of the bathroom on a Wednesday morning exclaiming, “Mommy, I brush-ded my hair!”

Indeed she did. With a toothbrush. And toothpaste. All up in there. What is it with this kid and toothbrushes?

I basically have my very own little Stitch. This clip is, in essence, what Smush is like on a daily basis. Just to be clear, Stitch is not the adorable little girl in this movie. It’s the creature of mass destruction.

Welcome to my life.

Parenting FAIL Friday: I get paid for this.

I have mentioned that I scored a sweet work-from-home gig that lets me make a little extra cash while still wrangling my rabid howler monkeys.

A friend is paying me to watch her two-year-old.

Stifle that laughter, please. I’m actually kind of awesome at it. And by awesome I mean no one has suffered serious bodily harm.

But we do fun things like  coloring projects. And yesterday I totally took one for the team and bundled us all up for outside time. In the blistering windy cold of winter. This had nothing to do with the fact that I needed the children to not be fighting in the walls of my home. Or that I may or may not have caught the two toddlers (mine and hers) physically fighting over a high chair, and swinging it around the living room trying to grab it from one another.

Toddler squabbles aside, it’s been kind of perfect. Curls (the second toddler – who has a full head of halfway-down-her-back black ringlets) is a very enthusiastic cleaner, and God knows Smush needs some work in that department. Plus it’s like a crash course in sharing for everyone involved, and I imagine that will be helpful once school days roll around for this brood. Either that or they will have learned how to go Jackie Chan on anyone that takes their pencil sharpener.

And even though they make messes, we use teamwork to clean them up.

Confession: I totally blew it in this department early on. Too often I gave in and cleaned up myself because I got sick of the tantrums. When it’s four against one, you can’t win. So you have to learn to stick to your guns and get all hands on deck. And I’ve been nailing it.

Except for this.   

That’s sugar. From my sugar bowl. That Smush and Curls emptied into their play sink to “cook.”

Oh look, they were stirring with Goo’s brand new paint brush from Christmas.

And because no toddler fiasco is complete without grinding tiny granules of insect-attracting food pellets into the carpet, I give you this.

As an added bonus, they painted Curls’ pants. In sugar. Which, upon putting them in time-out for taking food and dumping it out, they licked off with their fingers while they happily giggled in their chairs.

I get paid for this.

Parenting FAIL Friday: You’re going to want to replace that.

As you may know, we’re attempting to potty train Smush. It’s going swimmingly. And by swimmingly, I mean it’s been a couple of weeks, she hasn’t peed in the potty once, and she’s now trying not to drink because I was an idiot and told her drinks help us go pee pee. Smush – 1, Mediocre Mom – 0.

The other night we marched her into the bathroom, armed with her Dora potty seat, two potty books, and the patience of a saint. She promptly proceeded to pee before her jammies were off. Super.

We sat her on the potty anyway, because that’s what you do. You sit them on the potty to associate peeing with the toilet. As you can tell, it’s been working fabulously.

She sat there for a while, talking, singing, generally keeping herself amused. The Nerd stepped out for a second to chat with me, but stopped halfway through a sentence to begin the following conversation:

Nerd: …I need a new toothbrush.

Me: Huh?

Nerd: *glancing toward Smush* I need a new toothbrush.

(We see Smush, vigorously scrubbing…her feet. Her dirty little feet. With the Nerd’s toothbrush.) 

Me: It’s not that bad. I can sterilize it. It’s just her…

(We again see Smush, no longer scrubbing her feet, but her, umm, nether regions.)

Me: Yes, yes you are definitely going to need a new toothbrush.

I guess it’s good that she’s listening when I tell her about cleaning head to toe at bath time. Right? And about how important it is to brush our teeth, although she’s slightly off on her anatomy.

Has anyone noticed that these stories are not in most parenting books? Hoards of novels on proper nutrition, behavioral development, and socialization, but nobody says, “When your kid cleans their derriere with your toothbrush, we recommend the following course of action.”

Show me a parenting book on what to do when your preschooler starts putting stick-on boobs on her stuffed animals, and I might be interested. Parenting experts my foot.

Parenting FAIL Friday: Maybe we should have another talk.

If you’re squeamish about puberty-related things, don’t read this. There, I warned you.

Little kids are fascinated with human bodies. Particularly the parts that are different on boy and girls, or grown ups v. kids. This is disturbing at first, but then you realize it’s totally normal and not at all linked to anything Freud ever discussed. Dude was crazy.

Goo has probably been the most curious of our three kids. She once saw a toddler friend – a boy – pee standing up, and then tried to duplicate that process. She was not successful.

Side note: There is no such thing as too much bleach in a house with children.

Anyway, she has tried to “feed” her babies like mommies do. She has asked numerous questions about why grown-up girl bodies are different from hers. She has also asked why there are bras in the little girls’ section of stores, why boys can pee standing up and she can’t, and when she’s going to get to wear fancy “shirts” like grown up ladies.

The other day, Punkin had a play date, and her friend who is a bit older is in the um –  training – phase. Goo noticed the strap sticking out of her shirt, and with all the poise and etiquette that a four-year-old can muster, promptly asked:

Hey, you have those? My Mom does. Do yours feed babies, too?

Poor kid looked like a deer in headlights. Because girls on the brink of puberty are *super* comfortable talking about their transforming bodies.

I had another little talk with Goo about how big girl bodies can be different from little girl bodies, and about how she can ask me all her questions, but since it’s private, she shouldn’t ask other people. Job done.

This little incident was forgotten for the most part, until the Nerd and I found this:

That’s just inappropriate.

I may need to address this topic again.

Parenting FAIL Friday: Those aren’t candy.

What better way to kick off a new year than with a classic anecdote of “How are you allowed to be a mother?”

If you are raising, or someday hope to raise, multiple children, there’s a very good chance you’ll have to dial the Poison Control number at some point. We had to do it when Punkin ate deodorant (yes, deodorant) and when Goo ate approximately 30 gummy vitamins. But you know what there is no hotline for? Inedible objects.

Ringing in the New Year, everybody is making New Year’s resolutions. I’m not really into that, because I’m fairly certain 90% of those are failed attempts. I prefer to continually be trying to be the woman I want to be, whether that means joining (and actually using) the gym, or organizing the art cabinet. A sparkly ball dropping in NYC with a poorly hosted show of random celebrities does nothing to motivate me. Sorry, Carson.

While thinking about the things I’m currently working on, I thought: Maybe this will be the year. Maybe I’ll finally have my stuff so amazingly together, I’ll have to get rid of Parenting FAIL Friday because I’ll run out of material.

I made it 2.5 days.

Finding this next to your toddler is never, ever a good thing.

While getting the girls into bed the other night, I was snuggling Goo, and I heard a distinct crunch, then cough and gag, from the other bed. Cue this conversation:

Me: Smush, are you okay?

Smush: *gagging, spitting* Umm, yeah.

Me: Did you eat something?

Smush: Yeah.

Me: What did you eat?

Smush: Umm, just a Christmas light.

I flew, I mean FLEW, to her bedside, to find her spitting out tiny pieces of red Christmas bulb. Thankfully, it appeared that she did not swallow any, but Mom radar doesn’t shut off, so I have spent the last several days monitoring her eating and pooping (so. fun.) and waiting for the slightest sign of digestive issues.

In the meantime, all Christmas decorations have been taken down, and I’m seriously considering getting those electric shock pads to put around the tree next year. My girls broke no less than 6 ornaments this year. Plus there’s the whole issue of Smush apparently having some mild form of pica. If you read that definition, I’m fairly certain every toddler in the world has had “pica” at some point. Kids eat things. Like crayons, and paper, and light bulbs, evidently.

Maybe I should start off small with this New Year’s thing. “No ER trips in 2013.” Has a nice a ring to it.

Parenting FAIL Friday: Santa needs to keep his mouth shut.

The Nerd and I took the girls to his company’s annual Christmas shindig for the employees’ families. Let me just say, the Nerd works with the woman who heads up these events, and why she is working in HR when clearly should be an event coordinator to the celebrities is beyond me. Girlfriend is amazing: every kid met Santa and Mrs. Claus, dropped off their letters, got faces painted, airbrush tatoos, one Christmas gift, a bag of goodies from the candy shop, and free snacks. They mingled with elves, Frosty the Snowman, and the Gingerbread Man. They had live caroling from a choir. I can barely pull off a birthday party for a 6 year old.

It’s always a wonderful thing for the girls, because the whole Santa experience is so magical. When they met him, he naturally asked what they wanted.

Santa (to Punkin): And what would you like for Christmas this year, since you’re the big sister?

Punkin: Colorful stuff for my room, please.

(Me thinking: Yes! I got this. I already snagged a bright pink area rug, and a canopy tent for her reading nook. I’m good to go.)

Santa: Oh, well that’s nice! I certainly think we can do that.

(Me: Watch it, Santa. Let’s not make promises that you most certainly don’t intend to keep, since it will be my wallet getting hit.)

We’re here to shatter your Christmas dreams, but still take credit for the good stuff. Ho. Ho. Ho. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Santa: How about a pillow that lights up with bright colors?

(Me: Mayday! Mayday! Abort. We do NOT have a light up pillow, Santa. So unless you’re actually making a midnight stop by our tree, shut it.)

Punkin: Ooh, yeah! I would love that.

(Me: Santa, meet me in the parking lot after this.)

Crap. Now what? Freakin Santa has no business saying anything beyond, “Ho ho ho!” and, “We’ll see if the elves have those in stock,” because last time I checked, Santa wasn’t whipping out the card for those Amazon orders.

I get home and Google stupid light up pillows.

They cost $40 each.

Santa is not bringing a $40 light up pillow for Christmas. Neither are Mommy or Daddy. And now I have to come up with yet another reason that Santa didn’t bring the gift he suggested. Punkin’s going to start wondering why so many machines break down at the North Pole.

I had this Christmas owned, Santa. See if I leave you any cookies this year.

Parenting FAIL Friday: If my kids made the rules.

I read this post a while back on Rants From Mommyland, and was inspired to ask my kids what they thought our family rules should be. Warning: If you do this, your kids are probably going to say the opposite of whatever you’ve taught them. Because that’s how parenting works: You spend years instilling core values, only to have them fly out the window when they get the freedom to eat cookies for breakfast.

A few things happened while we were writing up our rules. Firstly, I realized that Smush has no idea what a rule is. 

Secondly, Punkin pretty much took the opposite of whatever I tell her, and made it a rule. Super. It’s always encouraging to know that the almost-decade you’ve spent training, teaching, encouraging, and disciplining is probably going to fly out the window. I place emphasis on healthy eating, and don’t just stick with, “Eat your vegetables.” I teach the girls about nutrition, why it’s important, how different foods help our bodies. This is all clearly evidenced in the very first rule the girls thought of.

Lastly, Goo surprised me, and not only did she echo some of my own rules, but she centered hers around quality family time. No idea where she gets that from.

I strongly encourage you to ask your own kids what they think family rules should be. It’s not just good for a laugh, but may actually give you a glimpse that you’re maybe doing something kind of right. Except for the ones that are opposite your actual rules. Those may need some work.

1. Eat ice cream every single day. But not on hot days because it melts.
2. Don’t paint on the walls.
3. Umm, I want pink.
4. Do whatever you want before you do your homework.
5. Go fishing, because we never get to go fishing.
6. Umm, lots of yucky things. But I don’t like worms.
7. We can snuggle whenever we want.
8. I like cookies and marshmallows.
9. You have to read for at least 30 minutes every day.
10. Go to Grandma’s for sleepovers all the time. And go to Meema and Peepa’s all the time, too.

Nobody mentioned violence, Bratz dolls, or boy bands, so I think I can give myself a pat on the back for this one.

Parenting FAIL Friday: My favorite parenting mantra.

This post isn’t totally a fail. But it is a very honest revelation of one my mediocre parenting mantras. Which, to the blissfully ignorant passerby, may seem a little…harsh.

Yesterday, while trying to cram way too much into too little time, the Nerd found me cleaning the kitchen in a huff. This in itself isn’t that unusual, because it’s not like I sing songs about rainbows and kittens while I wash dishes. But he knew something was up.

My other parenting mantra. Image via someecards.com.

Nerd: What’s up?

Me: I had the whole house perfectly clean two days ago, and it’s completely destroyed now.

Nerd: Then why aren’t the girls cleaning?

Me: Because the ticket thing doesn’t always cancel out the attitude, and it’s Thanksgiving and I’m sick of the sighing and whining. I hate it when they get like that.

Nerd: What do you always tell other moms? “If you’re not making them cry at least once a day, you’re not doing your job.”

We laughed. We hugged. I stopped daydreaming about boarding school.

I actually do say that to other moms. I’ve had more than one ask me, “how I do it,” and I tell them it’s all about trial and error, and one magic tool: consistency. If I say you’re getting a time-out, you bet your bippy you’re getting a time out. And this is where it gets weird. They say things like, “Oh. That’s so hard for me. I just hate it when my kids get upset with me.”

And then I laugh hysterically and use my famous line:

Sweetie, if you’re not making them cry at least once a day, you aren’t doing the job right.

Hyperbole, of course. Goo loses it over something pretty much daily, but Smush and Punkin don’t. The idea is that it’s not my job to appease you. It’s my job to raise you. And those are two very, very different things.

I’ve read books about effective discipline, effective communication, even effective praise. The market is saturated with these manuals. Maybe I should write a parenting book full of my nuggets of wisdom.

1. Love them unconditionally.
2. Pee with the door open.
3. Emphasize good vocabulary.
4. Make them cry at least once a day.

Mediocre parenting in four easy steps. Who needs parenting books?