The Secret of My (Parenting) Success

I don’t mean for this to sound conceited, but I get a lot of comments on my good parenting. I’m sure that a lot of the reason for that is that I post about my parenting on Facebook, in my personal blog, and in my monthly newspaper column, not to mention the fact that I am a stay-at-home-parent and homeschooler, so parenting is kind of what I do. When people talk to me, the most obvious thing to talk to me about is parenting. And yeah, I actually am pretty good at it. But let me share with you the very simple secret to my parenting success: I don’t care.

Seriously, that’s the secret. I don’t care.

Well, that may be a bit of an overstatement. I do care; I just don’t care about everything. I’ve figured out what’s important to care about, and I don’t care about the rest.

I don’t care what other people think about my parenting (with the exception of my husband, my pediatrician, and possibly one or two other professionals in the child care and development fields who happen to personally know me and my children well). I do my own research, I’m open to hearing other points of view, but when it comes right down to it, I know my kids and I’ll parent the way that I think works best for them and for me, and I couldn’t care less what anyone else thinks.

That sounds pretty easy, but it’s really not. I have no doubt that if I had become a mom in my twenties, I would have cared very much about what other people thought. I’d have plunged into depression when the La Leche League ladies at the hospital told me I was a horrible mother for only nursing my children for 3 or 4 months so I could go back on medication. But instead, I recognized that I knew what I needed, and I knew what my children needed, and it was a healthy mom and formula.

Twenty years ago I’d have been a stuttering, stammering mess if anyone challenged my ability to homeschool my son. God forbid they asked me about the dreaded “S-word”: socialization. But now I feel free to tell them that he’s socialized just fine, thanks, and maybe they should go talk to the public school kids who don’t ride the bus, don’t have recess, and aren’t allowed to talk during lunch or homeroom to see how well socialized they are in school. Except that I don’t, because I don’t care. It’s not any of my business how well socialized public school kids are, any more than it’s anyone else’s business how well socialized my kid is.

I don’t care if some stranger judges me because I let my daughter wear her Snow White costume to the grocery store, or because I let my son wear shorts and a T-shirt in 55-degree weather, or because I wouldn’t let either of my children take a free lollipop at the bank because they were having tantrums in line.

What I do care about is figuring out how to parent in such a way that my daughter feels free to make up an elaborate story about being a princess, or that my son feels free to dress in a way that makes him happy and comfortable, or that both my children recognize that there are consequences for their behavior.

I do care that my children feel loved, and respected. I do care that they recognize that they have a responsibility to contribute to society by learning, by being polite, and by making their own contribution to the world around them.

I don’t care if you think my son is weird because he homeschools; I do care if you try to tell him there’s something wrong with him because of it. I don’t care if you think my daughter is weird because of how she’s dressed; I do care if you make fun of her for it. I am teaching both my children to be loving and accepting of the many different ways that people behave. I am teaching them that there is a right way and a wrong way to behave. I am teaching them that there are more important things in life than their own wants. I am teaching them that they are important, and worthy, and that their lives are important and worthy.

And if you think that’s not important or worthy, well, I really don’t care.

Lumpy Oatmeal

This morning, the daycare program at my husband’s office posted a question on their Facebook page directed at over-40 parents: “What are the pros and cons of having children older vs. younger?” I’m sure there are dozens of factors that affect all parents differently, but for me, the answer to that question really comes down to one major con and one major pro.

The most obvious difference is that I have a lot less energy in my 40s than I did in my 20s. Especially now that I have a 14-month-old who STILL doesn’t sleep through the night consistently and a VERY active 3-year-old, my fatigue really affects me in a way that is more of a problem than I suspect it would have been twenty years ago. Back in college, I could easily go for weeks or even months at a time on 5 or 6 hours of sleep. No more. These days, if I don’t get 7 or 8 hours a night on a regular basis, I’m crabby (my husband will attest to this) and impatient (my kids will attest to this).

But the biggest advantage of having children older is also somewhat obvious, at least to me. There is a certain degree of calmness, acceptance, and patience (at least, there is when I’m getting some sleep) that I doubt I would have had in my 20s. Having twenty more years of experiencing life’s unexpected ups and downs has given me an ability to roll with the punches in a way I never could in my 20s. Very few people in their 20s fully understand the saying, “A lump in your oatmeal, a lump in your throat, and a lump in your breast are not the same lump. Get to know the difference.” I’ve experienced enough throat lumps and breast lumps, both personally and in those near and dear to me, to understand that most of my lumps in life – and particularly, in parenting - are just oatmeal.

In the past week – actually, now that I think about it, in the past three days – I’ve had to deal with crayon on the TV screen; stuffing pulled out of the couch; unexpected vomiting; unintentional shoplifting; refusal to eat; 2am crying jags (not mine – at least, not in the past three days); being kicked, punched, and bitten by my kids; full-scale public tantrums; and several pounds of birdseed ground into the carpet. I won’t go so far as to say that these things don’t drive me crazy, because they do. But age 43, I have the wisdom to step back, take a few deep breaths, and give the situation a little perspective before I deal with it. If I’d had to deal with these things at 23, I think there would have been a lot more personal 2am crying jags and possibly a public temper tantrum or two of my own. But not now. Because now I know that those are only lumps in my oatmeal. I’ll save the real stress-outs for those other lumps when they come along.

Motherhood Skills I Didn't Know I'd Need to Know

When I was expecting my first child, I thought a lot about the various skills I’d need as a parent. I figured I’d need to know how to sing some lullabies. I figured I’d need to know how to mix formula one-handed. I figured I’d need to know how to have a pretend tea party or build a pretend railroad. I figured I’d eventually have to be able to give a passable rendition of a few dozen fairy tales and nursery rhymes. I even figured that I’d have to learn to drive a minivan. But after nearly three years of hands-on parenting, there are a lot of skills I’ve picked up along the way that I never expected to need to know. Let me give you some examples.

I never knew I’d need to be able to dress and undress a recalcitrant, sticky, poop-covered octopus. The first time I had to change an uncooperative 8-month-old baby in July following a poopsplosion, I realized there were skills involved that I had never even imagined. I had to somehow have enough of my own appendages to hold all of his appendages away from the poop and still have a couple left over to peel his clothes and his diaper away from his sweaty, wriggling little body, plus at least one more to grab the clean diaper before any escaped baby appendages beat me to it.

I never knew I’d have to learn how to make everyday food into something entertaining enough that a two-year-old will eat it without question. I had no idea that the expression “plating,” in reference to a toddler, would mean creating everything from a pancake shaped like Mickey Mouse to a peanut butter sandwich shaped like a pinwheel to a pile of scrambled eggs with a face made from pretzel sticks, Cinnamon Life cereal, and M&Ms. Fortunately, I also discovered that in a pinch, I can just cut everything into chunks and stick a few frilled toothpicks in them.

I never knew I’d have to be able to create toys from nothing but the detritus in the passenger seat of my car, while driving. Who knew that an empty plastic water bottle, an oversized Dunkin Donuts straw, the lid of a yogurt tub, and a piece of tinfoil that was once wrapped around a gas station hotdog could occupy a small child for enough time to get to a reasonably hygienic highway rest stop with a child-friendly restaurant and changing table? Not to mention the fact that I also had to develop the power and accuracy in my throwing arm to get said detritus into the hands of the child in the back seat, using only the rearview mirror to aim. If I ever decide to make baseball pitching or dentistry my next career, I’ll be well ahead of the game.

I never knew that I’d have to learn how to make up stories on the spur of the moment based on subjects like, “the camera on my ceiling,” “a bulldozer,” “a smokestack and a silo,” and “my wall.” (All of these are actual story topics requested by my son within the past few months. And yes, I managed to come up with a story that had not only a coherent plot but also some kind of useful message for each one.) This particular skill happens to come in very handy when I’m blogging, as it gives me plenty of practice in having to expand a very simple or even vague idea into an entertaining story with a useful point.  

Wanna hear the one about the bulldozer that pushed over the smokestack and the silo which then knocked over the wall while being recorded by the camera on my ceiling and thus learned how to be gentle when playing with his toys?