Taboo Parenting Topics

When you become a parent, you join an elite (?) club of folks that can relate to your sleep-deprived rants, your love/hate relationship with your children and your many stories of the crazy things your kids do and say. However, I feel a little cheated with certain topics. There are secrets in this club that are not being exposed. Maybe that is the wrong term to use.

One particular topic that has me baffled is masturbation. I just read that sentence. Let me rephrase...No parent ever talks about what to do when your young child has an obsession with humping. Why is that? I feel cheated that no seasoned veteran parent had the generosity to share this possible eventuality. I know it is an uncomfortable topic, but couldn't someone have warned me that girls do this? And then proceeded to share with me how to address it? We can't be the only parents going through this.

Is it a phase? Is my daughter going to be an adult entertainer? (Please lord, spare me the horror.) Is she lacking something in her diet? Is she not getting enough sun? And what do we do? Post signs in public areas of the house? NO HUMPING ALLOWED. If only she could read. Do we tell her if she continues her hand will fall off? She's going to be in therapy one day anyway. Why not give her some good material? Should I have a siren that blares every time she does it? She'll move her hand to cover her ears, right?

Perhaps no one shared their experiences because they, too, had no idea what to do. Well I am here to tell you that once I have figured out how to handle the situation, I will let you know. I am breaking this code of silence!

An evening cut short

To celebrate my husband's birthday and father's day, we went out on a much needed date at a fabulous restaurant in town. The plan was to eat, drink and be merry, then meet up with some friends later to see a band. At the end of the meal, our sitter called me. BIG red flag. She never calls. The conversation went as follows:

Liz: We have a problem.
Me: What kind of problem?
Liz: Maura said the f-word so I sent her to her room.
Me: Ok.
Liz: There's more. She then cut off her hair while I was down stairs with the other two.
Me: Did she cut a lot off?
Liz: Ummm...yeah. Like her whole head.
Me: Oh my. I am so sorry. We will be right home.

I am afraid to say that Liz was right. Liz found a trail of hair from my office to my son's room. The scissors she used were kids' craft scissors - the only ones within reach in an effort to avoid this kind of scenario. Apparently, I was outsmarted by a 4-year old - again.

Maura is now sporting a pixie cut with whispy side burns, a tail perfectly centered in the back of her head and chunks of hair missing over her ears. It is quite a stunning masterpiece. No worries. I took plenty of pictures to torture her with when she is older. I cannot wait.

What you can learn from being silent

People that know me know that I am not one to sit silent for long. I have a lot to say, even about things I may not know about. It doesn't matter. If it's a topic, I have an opinion. Regardless, as I age (I sound so mature, don't I?) I am learning there is much value in listening and allowing a conversation to unfold without my interjection. I know, it's taken me a long time to figure this one out. The important thing is I AM figuring it out.

Case in point. Today was a very busy day. I felt like a chauffeur, schlepping my kids to their different camps on the opposite side of the state (so it seemed). By the time I had picked up the last kid, I was worn out and the idea of conversing with three children for the 40 minute ride home was less than appealing. So I listened to their day, what they accomplished and who was there, etc.

This is what I learned in those 40 minutes. My son overcame his fear of heights as he climbed a 35 foot rope - because "that is really high, mom." He did cry for me at one point, but he overcome that, too. Whew. All of a sudden he transformed into this mature little dude. Could it be? Then it was confirmed...Maura and Gage engaged in a conversation atypical of a 4 1/2-year old and 9-year old, I think.

Maura (in a nails-down-a-chalkboard whiny voice): Mom, Shayna is 5 and she has a TV in her room. Why can't I have a TV in my room?

Gage: Maura, we don't judge people by what they have. We judge them by who they are.

Maura: I wasn't talking to you, Gage. And I am not judging her! She is judging me because I don't have a TV in my room!!!!

I drove in silence and disbelief. I learned so many things in that brief interaction. Now I know how to motivate Maura into listening to me.....(insert evil laugh)....hahahahaha.

Money

I believe it is important to teach children the value of money, how hard it is to earn it and how easy it is to spend it. Part of that lesson includes the importance of saving. Our kids have been begging - and I mean truly begging - to go to Disney World. I hear at least every other day, "Mommy, when can we go to Disney?" Ugh. So, my response has been, "As soon as we save enough money." I think this may be in the process of backfiring.

My children are now obsessed with money. Truly. If they see any coin in any place - dirty or not, they will lunge for it, knocking things and people over just to have that penny, nickle or dime. It can be quite embarrassing when this mad dash occurs in public. They are not grasping the concept that all of our money is shared and that it doesn't matter who gets the coin or dollar. Nor are they grasping the fact that when this happens in public, people look at us with shock and pity in their eyes. Ok...maybe I am being dramatic. But you get the point.

And due to my 'lesson' on how to value money, I have created money hungry monsters. Recently when watching Spongebob Squarepants that featured the greedy Mr. Crab, Maura was watching with intensity. She then looked up from the television, pondered for about 2 seconds and then admitted, "Mom, I like money as much as Mr. Crab." GREAT.

So, when you see my kids' faces on the front page of the Wall Street Journal for working in cahoots with Bernie Madoff, you can blame me and my bright idea.

Look Ma, No Hands!

The recent legislation to ban hand held cell phones while operating a motor vehicle has got me thinking. I know...look out. Those who are lobbying heavily for this law to go into effect, must not spend much time behind the wheel when multiple children are in the car. Now this is pure speculation but my assumption is based on the fact that most legislators are men and I am thinking that these same men rarely shuttle little ones everywhere.

What does one have to do with the other? Well, if you are a parent of children and spend a good portion of your life in the car as I do, you recognize that there are times (more often than you care to admit) you don't have two hands on the wheel, much less one. Not only am I a wife and mother, I am a chauffeur, stewardess, tour guide, the cleaning crew and referee. And I could be ALL in just a short 10 minutes ride. Frightening.

Case-in-point: On my commute to the gym yesterday, my daughters must have asked me 20 questions in succession. I had little time to focus on anything else but answering them. Because if I didn't answer, their pitch would have gotten higher, the volume louder and the questions repeated 1 million times, or so it seems. (On a side note, I think my daughter may have a career as an auctioneer.) Then to throw in a little action, Maura started arguing with me on which way I should turn to get there. She wanted to change it up a bit and take a different route. SHE IS FOUR!

Then I had to calm the natives because their juice boxes were empty and they were DYING of thirst. Following that, my 2-year old dropped her baby and was shrieking until I reached behind the seat to get it for her. Super safe, I am sure. Maura somehow found a pen and was about to doodle on my leather car door. I slammed on the breaks to get her attention since she did not answer my repeated requests to hand me the pen. Slamming DID in fact work, by the way.

My 2-year old wanted the music louder so she could hear it. My 4-year old wanted their favorite song on (So What, by Pink - or as they lovingly call it - the Nanna song or the Rock Star song). My 2-year old wanted the pen that I took from the 4-year old. The 4-year old wanted the heat on because she was cold. "Or a blanket will do." Ummm...okay, your highness.

Needless to say, I could argue that this ride was much more dangerous than if I was on my cell phone. At least then I would have only had two things to concentrate on - the road and the call.

Potty Talk

Yesterday my 4-year-old daughter, Maura, tried to convince me that potty talk is funny. She spent a good 10 minutes bestowing the many virtues of potty talk - how it sounds funny, how the topic itself is hilarious, etc. Her father would be so proud. After hearing her arguments, Judge mommy ruled that while Maura may find potty talk to be funny, it is an inappropriate topic to discuss in public. Court adjourned.

Fast forward to this morning. What a horrible morning. My son, Gage, was in a foul mood and decided I was a great target for his hostility. He didn't wish to cooperate with me on anything - from finishing his homework, to getting dressed and brushing his teeth. We ultimately had it out to the point that many parents reach. The point when you have an out-of-body experience, look down on the situation and realize that you have officially lost your shit. At that point, I immediately stopped and simply walked away quietly.

So you are probably wondering what this has to do with Potty Talk. Well, as we are driving to school (yes, he missed the bus because of the heated battle) I calmly said to Gage, "Buddy, we need to figure out a better way to handle your homework, and the way we communicate. This just isn't working. What do you think?" He replied, "I agree, Mom. I have an idea on how to make it better." Okay...progress. He went on to describe how we could make things better.

I gingerly continued, "I don't want to yell. I don't want to fight. It makes me feel like poop. It make you feel like poop. Who wants to feel like poop?" As this was a rhetorical question, I certainly did not expect the following. 2-year-old Lyla joyfully exclaims, "I do!!" Well, Gage and I had a good laugh - a much needed comic relief.

Moments pass until I hear Maura say in a knowing voice, "See, Mom? I told you potty talk is funny." Always has to have the last word.

Mornings

When I worked outside of the home, my mornings consisted of 60 minutes of torture to get the kids dressed, fed and out the door followed by my commute to work. While those 60 minutes were sometime hellish, I knew that my time was soon coming so I suffered through with little complaint. I savored my morning commute. It was 30 minutes of me time. Time to reflect, time to recharge, time to jam out, time to enjoy the silence, time to not have to talk or deal with anyone. Now don't get me wrong, I genuinely like people and my children. I think I just would prefer them in smaller doses.

My mornings now consist of the same 60 tortuous minutes filled with different battles. Me battling to wake up as I stay up way too late so I can have some time to look for work, read to keep my mind sharp, watch television shows that aren't cartoons are feature some furry animal. It also includes the battle of waking my son who seems to whine more and more these days. Once he does rise from his slumber, he is grumpy, non cooperative and moves slower than any human being I know. I wonder if he does it intentionally knowing it drives me crazy. I like to move fast. He will drop to the ground in a fit of whiny convulsions if I even mention the words, 'hurry up.'

Now while he is having a devil of a time getting motivated to move faster than a snail in slow motion, the girls are demanding to be fed immediately lest they wither away and die from starvation. After all, it's been 11 hours since they last fed their needy bodies. This is occurring in harmony with the dog who is jumping in circles in the air, crying and running up and down the stairs at mock 10 to get noticed in case I 'forget' to feed her breakfast.

Every step of the way is painful. Each activity - dressing, putting on shoes, brushing teeth - is started with a whimper or whine. It's like finger nails down a chalk board for me. Truly. This morning, Gage was whimpering in the bathroom after I asked him to brush his teeth.

Me: What is wrong, Gage?
Gage: It's just so difficult!
Me (thinking): How can brushing your teeth be difficult?!?!?!
Me (saying): What is so difficult, honey?
Gage: Life.
Me: You have no idea.

And that pretty much sums it up. What an insightful little boy! And to think that whole process was only 30 minutes long! I'll save sharing the next 30 minutes for another time. When I do finally get through that hour of sour, I manage to get the rest of the clan out the door - either to the gym or coffee shop. I pity the fine people at Starbuck's or LA Fitness that see me on occassion after surviving the morning wars. I enter, hair disheveled, crooked smile with god-knows-what kind of outfit on. If they only knew what I endured to get there with no jam session, silence, reflection or recharge. It's a scary sight.