Motherhood Uncensored

Snips and snails and puppy dog tails. That's what girls are made of too.

When Quinlan decided she wanted a Harry Potter party a couple of weeks ago, I was equally tickled and freaked out, mostly because I'd never actually thrown any of my kids an official party, let alone one involving dragons, magic, and wizards for a bunch of 4 and 6 year old girls.

I thought about making it a Harry Potter tea party but my inner feminist smacked some sense into me.

And so, I found myself making bloodworm and blind cat eye centerpieces out of spaghetti and pearl onion, and filling my craft store cart with toy dragons, snakes, spiders, and bull frogs.

Definitely not your typical girl's birthday party decor. Because if you hit the "girl's" section at any party store, you might think the pretty pink princess monster took a gigantic shit in the aisle.

Maybe my daughter knew that I had paid my dues over the years, with three years in a row of Ariel birthday cakes, Barbie halloween costumes, and a collection of "play" make-up that somehow always ends up on walls and clothes. 

And really, if she wanted some sort of Barbie Luau Party, I would have obliged her - leis, hula skirts, limbo and all, though with much less gusto and plenty of inner eye-rolling. 

My main concern wasn't so much that my kid was wearing a striped tie, white shirt, black shorts, and a cloak at her birthday party, but that the party goers, all girls, would somehow be off put by the lack of, well, girliness.

But I threw on my old grad school robes and a terrible British accent, waved around a wand of my own, and wouldn't you know, they all had a smashing good time. No moans, groans, or screeches even. On the contrary, they dug it, all of them bound and determined to find the gigantic plastic snakes, spider, and bullfrog that I had hidden in the yard.

And really who can blame them? As much as tiaras, princess dresses, and sparkly make-up can make for plenty of fun, so can a few two-headed dragons and a plastic tarantula.

Somehow we've come to believe that girls are genetically programmed to like all that glitters, when really, that's absolutely not the case. They can have a diamond on one and a frog in the other, and still turn out just fine.

In fact, they'll be better for it.

Are we really still spanking our kids?

Nothing gets my post partum panties in a wad like the spanking issue, which was the case a couple of weeks ago when I was forced to set up my mobile office in a local McDonalds due to an extended Internet outage.

I was happily clicking away in my quiet booth by the bathroom and the exit when I watched a visibly pissed mother walk by with her sniffling daughter, probably around seven or eight years old, not so gently escorting her to the bathroom.

What followed was a series of audible whacks and yelps which had me nearly vomiting and white knuckling the table so that I wouldn't go into the bathroom and verbally whip that mother as hard as she was whipping her kid.

I've long wondered whether it was just the South that had such antiquated child discipline standards, with parents openly smacking their kids and some private schools still subjecting their students to corporal punishment.

But in a recent column in The Daily, the iPad newspaper to which I subscribe, it's more widespread than I thought. Apparently over 70% of college-educated parents reported spanking their kids in the 90s. And from what I've seen, my guess is that number hasn't changed that much.

Now I've heard all the arguments in support of spanking, from the whole "nothing else works" line  to my all-time favorite "my parents did it and I turned out just fine" which is what our parents used as an excuse for stupid shit their parents did.

I've had people cite research that says spanking is actually good for your kids. Or that yelling is worse.

And to all of them I say, BULLSHIT.

I can actually comprehend the whole desperate or angry parenting moment when your kid completely drives you up a wall or does something so unbelievably egregious or unsafe that smacking them is almost a reflexive, involuntary movement, like in the case of Her Bad Mother.

And I have regrettably plopped my kids down in the corner in a not-so gentle manner. I've given them a piece of my mind in a way that would melt the Pope's ears off.

But I end up feeling awful.

To me, spanking as a calculated, planned punishment, especially with instruments like paddles, belts, and other objects, is deplorable, abusive, and completely unnecessary.

I don't care how fine you are now even though your parents did that to you. Since when did "just fine" become the standard to which we want to raise our kids?

Or how you've tried time outs and counting and sticker charts and reward systems and grounding and they just don't seem to work.

Who didn't they work for? You or your kids?

I can promise you this: It takes as much time and effort to walk your kid into a public bathroom, pull their pants down, and smack their ass as it does to find and use a positive method to provide discipline and instill respect.

One that doesn't encourage and promote hitting. One that doesn't instill fear. One that doesn't involve shame. One that doesn't change the dynamic in your relationship.

Here's a thought: Do better.

Maybe your kids will be just fine, growing up without the emotional and physical scars that many spanked kids report having.

Or maybe they won't.

Are you really willing to take that risk?

Seven.

In 2011, you told me that I was the best mom ever. And I promised to remind you of that when you were screaming "I hate you" just a few years down the road.

You said you could never hate me.

I hope that you're right.

If there's anything I've learned about being your mom for the last seven years, it's that nothing has been how I expected it would be. Which sort of makes sense because I really had no expectations.

There were no cliches', no "aha" moments about you that I could pinpoint in an index notation of a best selling parenting book that prepares for the generalities of caring for a baby but not really parenting one.

Maybe that's because there aren't any words to describe what it is to be someone's parent. For me, it felt like simultaneously getting the wind knocked out of me and air being pumped back into my lungs. 

When they laid you on my bare chest, it was equally terrifying as it was glorious.

It still is.

But each moment we've had together are new and fresh, ones we we made together, on our own. Not in some book. Not in my mind. Or even in my mind's eye.

Sure, I've tried to picture what you would be like, but, Quinlan, my imagination didn't do you justice.

So instead of seeing you at 10, 13, or 18, I'll just enjoy you as you are right now.

Seven.

Happy Birthday, love.

Here are a few birthday posts from past years if you're so inclined.

2010, 2009, 2008, 2007, & 2006

Light as a feather

A few weeks ago, Quinlan started waking up with a sneezy, stuffy nose. I chalked it up to the summer cold part deux we'd all been hit with and didn't think twice about it.

Then I noticed that it was really only in the morning that she was raiding the tissue box and by the end of the day seemed perfectly fine. And then we went away and her cold disappeared.

My tendency has always been to head straight to Nurse Twitter or Dr. Google, and type in a series of symptoms and my kid's age and then buckle myself in for an anxious roller coaster ride of possible problems.

And while I may not Google or Tweet every single parenting decision I make, I give it a lot more than a passing thought. In fact, as much as I'm survivor mom, I still over think almost everything I do and say.

They're my kids. If there's anything I want to do right, it's being a good parent.

So whether it's beating myself up for what's lately been the daily blow up and subsequent apology, to trying to figure out what to do with my son who is royally kicking my ass to whatever else, I'll spend more time than I've got available to figure it out.

Somehow everything is such a life altering big deal that must be researched, explored, and dissected. The grandiose apologies, the extensive chore charts, the parenting books that tell me how to ensure that my kids are well-rounded, self-sufficient individuals.

But when I took a moment to think clearly instead of freak, over analyze, and seek the help of non-medical social media professionals, I thought to myself "maybe it's a feather pillow."

And indeed, it was.

And many times, it is just a feather pillow, yet we make a big huge deal as if every single thing is a momentous, life changing decision.

I'm all for teaching moments. Learning opportunities. Being consistent, appropriate, and parent-ly. Setting a good example for our kids.

But so very often, it's not as complicated as we think. It doesn't involve wracking our brains, whether we're trying to find the answer or punishing ourselves for giving the wrong one.

Sometimes. A lot of times, actually, it's as simple as that feather pillow.

Hey! I wrote stuff!

So apparently that "Go the Fuck to Sleep" book is just a dad being sexually frustrated. I can't say I saw that coming.

I'm learning a lot from my daughter's piano teacher. And it's not piano.

Everyone keeps asking me where I find all my cool gadgets and apps and well, duh. Cool Mom Tech, of course.

Now back to planning a last minute Harry Potter birthday party for Quinlan. Who is turning 7.

How did that happen?