Perfecting parent paranoia,[1] is my new focus of the day. From the moment the squirmy little things are placed in my custody, I am consumed with being a better parent, but the advice book I’ve picked up today calls every other parenting book “bunk” and reminds me again that authors must be experts and authorities to sell books—or at least sound like it by degrading all opposing voices.
I think that this is precisely why these persons feel qualified to write books on parenting because professing to be an expert is not only a primary parental prerequisite—it is the parent's creed.
Reality Bite: Because I Said So. Not only am I an expert, but at times, I am a personification of the perfect one.
[1] Isn’t that a great alliteration?
Showing posts with label Cpt 5: Paranoia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cpt 5: Paranoia. Show all posts
Monday
…greek
I’ve said it before, go right ahead and be eccentric, if you’re a millionaire. Different is an acceptable word in polite society but only if it’s coupled with the word “affluent or famous.” Otherwise, when you are tagged with the word different, they really mean “freak”.
Well-meaning parents battle the hard, cold, cruel world by arming a child with deflector shields against the barrage of sharp words—but we are never very successful.
Dear Me,
The conditioning didn’t work. I explained to the teacher that I made a special effort to yell at my children daily to minimize this very problem because I’m always looking ahead and striving to do what is best for them. The second-grader still has a paralyzing response to the teacher’s yelling. Maybe I should have slapped her too?
I’m working to defuse the explosive power of the word “Freak” so that when it is dropped over and over in the proximity of my children, they can survive the blast and in the ensuing barrage, escape with minimal damage.
Reality Bite: Combine freak and geek and get Greek and that is what this all is to me.
Well-meaning parents battle the hard, cold, cruel world by arming a child with deflector shields against the barrage of sharp words—but we are never very successful.
Dear Me,
The conditioning didn’t work. I explained to the teacher that I made a special effort to yell at my children daily to minimize this very problem because I’m always looking ahead and striving to do what is best for them. The second-grader still has a paralyzing response to the teacher’s yelling. Maybe I should have slapped her too?
I’m working to defuse the explosive power of the word “Freak” so that when it is dropped over and over in the proximity of my children, they can survive the blast and in the ensuing barrage, escape with minimal damage.
Reality Bite: Combine freak and geek and get Greek and that is what this all is to me.
Sunday
…fruition
To me:
My kids are freaks! The conversation that centers round the husband’s water cooler doesn’t give my children much of a chance of ever being “normal,” and it’s “due to their eccentric parenting”. Could the boss have meant moi? T.
My children don’t fit the media-kid mold—the “Y” generation. “Y can’t I have more of everything handed to me, and “Y” can’t I have it faster, cheaper and made more exciting?” “Y” can’t you clean up the environment?” and “Y” did you start this conflict?”
In fact, my children avoid making any such rash statements because such a query would unleash the teaching dictator in me and they would be subject to an hour of social reprogramming.
I begin with an auditory harangue, followed by a visual representation of others who have it worse, and climax in a chore or two to actualize the kinesthetic learning concept.
Thus far, the teen-agers at my home are humble, modest, and caring yet cynical about all things in the world. My strongest behavior modifier is the threat of removing their library privileges. Television disgusts the lot of them and if it weren’t for their eerie fixation with old videos of Monty Python, I would be seeking immediate psychiatric intervention.[1]
To me,
My offspring are just like me, a bunch of non-conformists. They go up the down, and today she went in the out. She ignored the door sentry and his persistent, “Excuse me, may I help you?”
When he persevered and asked her twice more, the daughter finally stopped, and deigned to give him a short appraisal up and down and then retorted, “Not unless you are headed to the bathroom too?” Tired, T.
Those three children relate well with adults and each other; they are responsible and respectful and I am worried sick! I’m scared witless of the rebellion that is sure to come! Will they become stable contributors, marry happily, sacrifice to raise great kids, and end up living satisfied, debt-free lives? Yikes! They may never fit the “Y” generation’s idea of normal!
And so, I respond like each and every parent who has ever tried to translate the foreign language of parenting into their own lingo, I claim insanity.
My goal is to raise children who are unique, responsible, and considerate but I'm getting frustrating, confusing, exasperating, maddening and wearisome. I guess I can settle for the word different!
Reality Bite: Weird but wonderful was Grandma’s term for my teenism.
[1] Oh I already have? And they were no help! So, maybe the whole rest of the world is nuts too!
My kids are freaks! The conversation that centers round the husband’s water cooler doesn’t give my children much of a chance of ever being “normal,” and it’s “due to their eccentric parenting”. Could the boss have meant moi? T.
My children don’t fit the media-kid mold—the “Y” generation. “Y can’t I have more of everything handed to me, and “Y” can’t I have it faster, cheaper and made more exciting?” “Y” can’t you clean up the environment?” and “Y” did you start this conflict?”
In fact, my children avoid making any such rash statements because such a query would unleash the teaching dictator in me and they would be subject to an hour of social reprogramming.
I begin with an auditory harangue, followed by a visual representation of others who have it worse, and climax in a chore or two to actualize the kinesthetic learning concept.
Thus far, the teen-agers at my home are humble, modest, and caring yet cynical about all things in the world. My strongest behavior modifier is the threat of removing their library privileges. Television disgusts the lot of them and if it weren’t for their eerie fixation with old videos of Monty Python, I would be seeking immediate psychiatric intervention.[1]
To me,
My offspring are just like me, a bunch of non-conformists. They go up the down, and today she went in the out. She ignored the door sentry and his persistent, “Excuse me, may I help you?”
When he persevered and asked her twice more, the daughter finally stopped, and deigned to give him a short appraisal up and down and then retorted, “Not unless you are headed to the bathroom too?” Tired, T.
Those three children relate well with adults and each other; they are responsible and respectful and I am worried sick! I’m scared witless of the rebellion that is sure to come! Will they become stable contributors, marry happily, sacrifice to raise great kids, and end up living satisfied, debt-free lives? Yikes! They may never fit the “Y” generation’s idea of normal!
And so, I respond like each and every parent who has ever tried to translate the foreign language of parenting into their own lingo, I claim insanity.
My goal is to raise children who are unique, responsible, and considerate but I'm getting frustrating, confusing, exasperating, maddening and wearisome. I guess I can settle for the word different!
Reality Bite: Weird but wonderful was Grandma’s term for my teenism.
[1] Oh I already have? And they were no help! So, maybe the whole rest of the world is nuts too!
Thursday
…ties that bind
Dear Diary,
The son passed his well-child check-up. We fly with colors past the psyche tests, sleeping alone, dry at night, eating healthy, plays well with others.
“Your best friend’s name is Rope?” The doctor frowns under his brows.
“Yes, he’s in Mommy’s purse and it’s really dark in there! But, if we’re nice at the doctors, then he gets out and we get ice cream!” A trifle tetched too, Me
One morning, I walked unsuspecting across the kitchen and tripped on a string strung across the space creating a web from cabinet to cupboard. The fridge door flew open, hit me in the back, and I fell forward to meet face-first, the cupboard door careening toward me. Behind me, the youngest son doubled over giggling uncontrollably.
I asked for it, I trained him by implementing Mom’s old stand-by for keeping the toddler out of the cupboards. I tied the cupboards closed to keep the toxic stuff in and the lethal child out. I use shoelaces rather than those new-fangled plastic thing-a-ma-bobs that require a degree in engineering to install, and the only one they keep out is me. It seems simpler to tie the doors shut and in a pinch, the children can untie them for me.
The stairs now have cobwebs strung across the expanse from banister to banister—a snare. He insists that it is not intended to be a tripping trap and even offers to demonstrate as he attempts to swing over the top rail and rappel twenty feet down the wall.
But I know! I know that it’s subconscious payback for the shoelace and the cupboard trick! Children tend to remember these things and when they get older, they attribute unnatural significance to the power of string.
Reality Bite: What other tortures did I unknowingly inflict that will be revisited upon me in my old age?
The son passed his well-child check-up. We fly with colors past the psyche tests, sleeping alone, dry at night, eating healthy, plays well with others.
“Your best friend’s name is Rope?” The doctor frowns under his brows.
“Yes, he’s in Mommy’s purse and it’s really dark in there! But, if we’re nice at the doctors, then he gets out and we get ice cream!” A trifle tetched too, Me
One morning, I walked unsuspecting across the kitchen and tripped on a string strung across the space creating a web from cabinet to cupboard. The fridge door flew open, hit me in the back, and I fell forward to meet face-first, the cupboard door careening toward me. Behind me, the youngest son doubled over giggling uncontrollably.
I asked for it, I trained him by implementing Mom’s old stand-by for keeping the toddler out of the cupboards. I tied the cupboards closed to keep the toxic stuff in and the lethal child out. I use shoelaces rather than those new-fangled plastic thing-a-ma-bobs that require a degree in engineering to install, and the only one they keep out is me. It seems simpler to tie the doors shut and in a pinch, the children can untie them for me.
The stairs now have cobwebs strung across the expanse from banister to banister—a snare. He insists that it is not intended to be a tripping trap and even offers to demonstrate as he attempts to swing over the top rail and rappel twenty feet down the wall.
But I know! I know that it’s subconscious payback for the shoelace and the cupboard trick! Children tend to remember these things and when they get older, they attribute unnatural significance to the power of string.
Reality Bite: What other tortures did I unknowingly inflict that will be revisited upon me in my old age?
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