Category: parenting

I’ve been a mother for twenty-six years, and during that time, I’ve raised three children, and contributed to the education of quite a few others who weren’t my own, but who dirtied my furniture and ate my food just the same. Yes, there have been moments, weeks, years even, that were hard, VERY hard – debilitating almost. But what is it they say? What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right? Well, I don’t know about that.

Anyway, in case you are hell bent on the idea of parenting – I mean nobody really believes it’s as hard as others who’ve gone before them may say and who may recommend a goldfish or gerbil instead – here are a few small tips (let’s call them “short cuts” or “stress alleviators”) that I’ve learned along the way. Practicing one or even of a few of them may prevent you from stabbing yourself in the eye with a fork to end the intense suffering at some point. If it ever gets to that, do me two favours: one, thank me for the help, and two, admit that I was right. That alone could make it all worth it for me – knowing that someone has suffered as much as I have. OK, here we go…

When my kids were little, they were kind of wild. They pretty much popped out of the womb that way. Come to think of it, they haven’t changed much.

I blame this propensity for barbarousness on my ADHD husband – he was on Ritalin when he was younger. It doesn’t matter that I should classify myself under the same heading.

Because of him (and marginally because of me), my kids were the ones climbing to the top of the swing set, forget the swinging. They were the ones running and squealing through the mall, and I don’t mean after we’d been there for an hour. I mean right from the get-go. They were the ones jumping out of the stroller or the wagon because “sitting” was not part of their vocabulary. They were the ones making snow forts in the dead of winter – didn’t matter how cold it was – because I (their mother, who was always outside with them, BTW) couldn’t take being cooped up in the house for an entire day with three such rabble-rousers. They were the ones that the checkout ladies at the library dubbed “the loudest human beings on the face of the planet” and then proceeded to ban us from coming in there – for at least a week until they forgot and then the whole sequence started all over again. That was the way it went for many years. “You can’t come in.” We went in. “You can’t come in.” We went in. Why the library had to put the children’s section right next to the senior’s quiet reading corner, I’ll never know.

Continue reading “When Kids Are Hyper, You Spend A Lot Of Time Outside”

When I was younger – BEFORE children – I was different. As you might expect, physically I was different, like my belly was relatively smooth and stretch-mark free, like I didn’t have so many grey hairs, like my vagina hadn’t been assaulted by a doctor’s arm and three bowling ball-sized creatures that had passed through it.

Emotionally, I was different as well, like I didn’t worry so much about every single, itty-bitty, teeny-weeny thing.

And I bring this up now because my girlfriend wants me to go with her so the two of us can get our motorcycle license together. I’m not sure. Honestly, I feel like it would be taking a risk that I’m not ready for. My children still need me – a lot. And I know, I could walk out the door and get hit by a bus tomorrow [knock on wood], but still, motorcycles make me nervous. Not that I don’t think I’d look good on one. I would – in my leathers, and my sexy boots, because I WOULD have sexy boots. Not sure how the helmet would affect my hair though.

Continue reading “I Had Kids And Then This Happened…”

“How many friends do you have on Facebook?” It’s my twenty-year-old son asking me this. His questions are generally meant to make me look bad.

Can you do a one-armed handstand? Do you know how to do the wop? How many boyfriends did you have in high school? No, no, and none? Loser. Stuff like that.

I haven’t answered the Facebook question yet. I’m trying to think. In the end, I have to look it up. “Two hundred and twenty-five,” I say. To me, that’s a lot. It’s not like I have four.

“You added some of them, right?” he smirks.

“Of course,” I say. “Who gets all of their friends without adding any?”

“Our cat, that’s who. Archie has eighty-two friends, and he didn’t add ANY of his. They all added him.”

Yes, our cat has his own Facebook account, which – as reported by my all-knowing children – is more common than you might think. According to his information, Archie’s even in a “domestic partnership” with some woman named Ruby Rose. Plus, he’s interested in both women AND men. When he has the time for that, I’ll never know. And this is his current profile picture.

“Awesome,” I say to my son about the cat not having to add a single friend on Facebook. See what I mean about his quest to make me look bad?

And then he turns the screws in a little tighter. “I have thirteen hundred friends, and I didn’t add very many of mine either.”

I give up. “OK, well you and Archie and probably the rest of the world are all Facebook superstars, and I’m just a complete and utter Facebook loser.” I feel marginally inept.

“You said it, not me.” He shrugs his shoulders, and goes back to watching stupid Youtube videos.

Some day – when people like me more than they like him (which may be never, because he IS pretty popular) –  I’m going to get that boy, and by “get” I mean, put some diced tomatoes in his spaghetti sauce because he REALLY hates that. Like what does he think they make spaghetti sauce out of anyway, chocolate? They just blend it so you can’t see the pieces.

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Sometimes, I want to wring my eighteen-year-old daughter’s neck. Sorry daughter, but you were there the other night. You probably wanted to wring mine as well. Yes, we were having one of those discussions that went from a simple disagreement, to a full out scream-fest.

I find that one of the most challenging parts of raising teens and young adults is that they don’t always do what you tell them to do, like that’s a surprise.

As parents, we have our children’s best interest at heart. I’m always saying this, especially to my daughter. “Do you think I”m trying to ruin your life? Why would I want to do that? I only want you to be happy and safe, and if I can pass along some of the lessons I’ve learned over the years, then I will.”

Continue reading “Parenting Is Hard, Like "Trying To Squeeze Water From A Stone" Hard”