…one, two, three, whoa

With a firstborn child, the shining spark of infant success is like a meteor shower that spells genius and the ensuing trails of brilliance are met with universal Ahhs and Oohs.   We must to win “Best of Show” at the great parenting fair in the "brightest stars" classification.

Then the second star bursts forth and the parent realizes that the enthusiastic spark of excitement that flashed with the first has waned slightly.  And the Ahhs and Oohs are Oh's and Eughs!

When the third child flashes, he trails on the tails of the burning comet, and thrives on burnt out cinders and when the last spark bursts forth, the parental brain cells are toast.  

With a last born, parental tranquility and harmony float along as detritus in the wake of the child’s momentary flashes of effort.


Dear Me,
    Eighty percent of the children in the youngest child’s P.M. kindergarten class are last siblings of teenagers, whose parents have surrendered the futile battle of bedtime. If they are in bed by eleven and out of it by eleven, we can make it to school, and on rare occasions, even be on time.      We’ve become imperturbable, passive parents who seek peace and love and recognize that there are other advantages to being the youngest member in a teen-filled home—like advanced math, chemistry, and other bits of knowledge on a higher level.
     An experienced K-12 teacher can recognize and appreciate the trade-offs. It’s all good, T.

While this lessening of stress may be good, the unfortunate side effect is that it takes a greater spark to enthuse and excite me. The activities at school have become as shopworn and soiled as the recycled Halloween costume and working up enthusiasm for what seems like one’s twentieth authentic First Thanksgiving feast no longer kindles the rush of adrenaline that it once did.

To me:
I give him a choice. The third child’s food pyramid costume is either the first’s child’s twice-recycled potato man outfit, or a sack over the head with marker scrawled across it. Which is your vote? Tenuously grasping, T

Reality bite: Have I worn off the worrywart?

I’ve isolated the problem and formulated an answer. Parents who are world-wise are not swayed by opinion and are able to realize what is important. And what is important is being a sane parent. T.

…fun raising

Dear Grandma,
My homework tonight is a survey on your likes and interests. Please check: I like the following magazines, books, cards, fruit, cakes or pies. Have you yet purchased gifts for Christmas, Valentines, Halloween and Veterans Day, and could you sponsor me for the school hog-a-thon. Love, your ever-lovin', money-grubbing granddaughter.

Along with the school supply fees, I prepare for the club fees. Any child, however woefully talented, can find a club to fit their interests. Clubs are a pyramid scheme with their fees for membership, the uniform, competitions and fundraisers. The cost just builds and builds and I can’t help thinking that someone, somewhere must be benefiting.

Upon joining every language, music, sports, civic, and feel-good club and organization, the strange catalogs with purchase opportunities begin to arrive. Any connoisseur of designer chocolate hasn’t lived until they have sampled the fifty-dollar malted milk balls from a fundraiser catalog. These catalogs offer wrapping paper as pricy as gold flake, and thirty-dollar candles which somehow manage to melt their way into our home and our budget.

A person becomes more and more callus as the dunning letters add up, but the straw that sucks the last pound of flesh from the hemorrhaging hump of the camel is a fund-raiser for the fundraising group!

After the initial shake-down, come the fees for being a parent of a child belonging to a club, thereby becoming a “booster.” The vicious cycle of booster membership opportunities continue as fundraising is eclipsed by volunteer opportunities to help those who fundraise.

I know first-hand that parents are not the King Tut or Isis who sit at the top of these schemes, but somebody, somewhere is getting rich—and while the government may ultimately be at blame, it doesn’t seem to be having any effect on lowering the national debt.

To me,
I must make sure I pay the yearbook fee to give me a permanent record of all the things I fundraised for. Is it absolutely certain that I can’t write that fee off toward the cost of tax prep? Yikes, T.

When you take out that college loan, see if they can front a little money, say twelve years worth, so you can afford to raise them to college age.

Reality Bite: And I thought school was free to the public? Think of it as a vicious sign of a really healthy economy.

...obsession

Certain phrases have become meaningless to me, “Homework is done,” “Back in ten minutes”, “Five-minute showers”, “Just one more level on the video game,” The eyes in the back of my head have become telescopic and the intuition is tuned to perfect pitch. I happily admit that I am edging ever nearer to parental perfection.

To me,
My planet of reference has left the orbit of influence and sometime while passing through the port of experience, it jettisoned guilt, anxiety and fear and became shielded by hard-earned peace and tranquility. Signing off, T

The ages of my children span nearly a decade, (infant to grade schooler, toddler to tween, and grade schooler to graduate) and I’m observing an interesting phenomena. We parents of teens, who also have toddlers lack the naivety that motivates new parents to action. We lack the fear and anxiety that the rest of society relies upon to inspire parents to act!

There are not many things that can shock, thrill or motivate the parent of a last child and I’ve found this nonchalant attitude to be very liberating. My list of obsessions is minimal. I worry less about gracing the perfect teacher, pacing the nightly homework, or facing the “bees and bird” discussion.

For a third-time parent, academic perfection is passé. It really doesn’t matter which reading group the child is in, and there is a certain calm that comes in knowing that poor writing and bad spelling can be adapted-to rather than improved-upon. It’s not that I’ve given up, but I’m worn down by the constant battering and I’ve given in.

Well okay, given up may be a better fit.

Reality Bite: Give in, give up, or get a prescription.

...pay to play

I remember the heart-wrenching moment as a new mom sends the first-born child off to the first day of school. The bus stops to collect him with his new backpack, filled with a one change of clothes, an unsharpened #2 pencil, and a bright purple folder.

And so, when the third child ventures forth, I find myself clinging to the poor child with frantic fervor—a parent desperate with the memory of the two who have gone before—a parent who knows that the time will come, all too quickly, when the little one will trip off unburdened by life, and return home needing eight folders in a rainbow of colors, four three-ring binders, two notepads, a dozen pencils, two reams of assorted paper, a calculator, six boxes of tissue, five red pens, and seven hundred pink erasers.[1]

A brand new, first-time kindergarten parent is naively ignorant of the warning that, “This is just the beginning.” The first-grader’s list of supplies reads like a back-to-school sale from Walleyworld and it escalates from there.

By the time they are teens, these children work out all summer long, growing buff and lean, not just to impress the opposite sex, but to face those first days of school when they must strap on the burdensome pile of required school supplies.

Reality Bite: By the last round, I’ve learned how to dodge the blows.

[1] Is there an eraser heaven? Have you ever seen any used erasers? Do they disappear into never-never eraser land?