Mother Of The Year

*I wrote this several years ago.  It's still more applicable than I want to think about.*

 

With my first kid I did everything right.  He had the best of everything.  As I've had more kids I've become laid back almost to the point of neglect.  Sometimes my friends with young kids or babies will call me for advice and I'll have to struggle to come up with some sort of nugget of wisdom that won't cause CPS to come knocking on my door.... "well, hmmmm....Eoin had the sniffles last week.  Fortunately we had some leftover antibiotic from when the cat was sick.  We just used that and he was right as rain within a day or two!"

Aidan can be prone to anxiety that sometimes makes you sure that if you just clubbed him really hard with a blunt object he'd improve.  Or at least stop bitching that his socks have bumps, the glass has a spot on it, his shoelaces are too tight, too loose, the tag on his shirt is itchy, his oatmeal is too lumpy, too runny, he's out of clean underwear, and his teacher is mad at him that the hasn't turned in his (signed) report card.  Goldilocks wasn't this picky.

The last two items are probably legitimate.  I found him clean underwear but his report card has been lost since he brought it home, I glanced at it to make sure he's not an idiot (he's not) and then put it...somewhere.  The teachers at their school must win some sort of contest on who can get the most signed report cards back because Aidan has been like a terrier about this ever since he brought it home.  As I was making dinner the other night he was nagging me again: "did you sign it yet?  did you sign it yet?  did you sign it yet?  didyousignityetihavetobringitbacktomorrowmyteachersaidsoifidon'ti'llbeintroublemoooooooomdidyousigntityet???"

OMG. 

I told him that I was busy and didn't have a pen and he went wailing out of the kitchen to pinch his brother.  Finally.  Peace.

Two mornings later as I'm dropping him off at school he says "oh yeah.  this is for you."

He hands me a ziplock baggy containing a pen and a note on cute little apple patterned stationery: "Jill, here is a pen to sign Aidan's report card with.  He said you didn't have one.  Please keep it.  Thanks! :0) Mrs. Smith"

Bitch. 

I instructed Aidan to return the pen to his teacher and to tell that crack whore bitch that I'd send the report card back when I was good and ready.  Ok I didn't use those words exactly.  We did eventually find and sign the damn report card and peace has been restored to the second grade.

Then there is the youngest child. 

By the time Eoin was born I was tired and had also figured out that pretty much as long as he was not being left outside in the elements, chances are he would survive into at least early childhood just fine.  But just in case we didn't name him until he was three so as to lessen the chance that we'd get attached. 

During my pregnancy with Eoin, I read The Continuum Concept by Jean Liedloff.  This was

a fascinating book that every new parent should have on their "To Read" list  a complete bunch of hooey later ridiculed by renowned Harvard anthropologists.

The book follows members of a Venezuelan tribe who basically expect their children to follow them around and by instinct understand that fire is hot and dangerous, falling off of clifs is bad, and water will drown you.  So the babies seemingly miraculously stay close to their parents by choice because if they don't, they might be eaten by tigers and really, who wants that?

I hated baby gates, but they always seemed to be a necessary evil if I didn't want my kids to fall down stairs or enter certain rooms.  After reading this book though I decided to test out the theory and I took down the gates in front of our two flights of stairs and decided to see what Eoin would do with his new found freedom.  Would he go diving off the top step like a suicidal four month old?  Or would his innate will to live protect him?  It was very Darwinian actually.

My mom happened to be at my house that morning and as the baby scootched and rolled across the floor she offered to put up the gates.  I told her no, and explained about the book I had just read and that I was testing whether or not he was as smart as venezuelan tribal babies.  For some reason my mother has always had  complete faith in my parenting abilities so after staring at me for a whole minute she said "well, ok...if you think it's a good idea." 

Game on.

We watched the baby get closer and closer to the edge of the step.  My mom inched forward on the couch.  I flipped through a magazine.  I had already calculated that it wouldn't be necessary to let him kerplunk all the way down the stairs if he failed this test.  Our steps curved after the first two onto a landing and I doubted much injury could happen from tumbling down the first two steps.  I was counting on some sort of latent mothering instinct to kick in that would drive me to rescue him from the rest of the stairs before any real damage would occur.  Failing that, my mom was here.

He crept closer and closer finally peering over the top of the step and seeming to ponder what to do next.  He finally made his decision and backed away.  He passed.  I never put up another baby gate.

Eoin was generally a happy baby but like most kids would get really cranky around dinner time.  As I was fixing dinner he would start to fuss and kvetch in his swing.  I called Eric into me and told him to please entertain the baby.  "You want me to drag him around again?" he asked me.  Yes, actually.  That would be great.

As the youngest of four closely spaced siblings, Eoin was both favorite play thing and perfect victim.  When he was a few weeks old I went out of the living room and when I returned he was being dragged around the room by his ankles by his older brother.  Being that he was the fourth child, I watched for a few minutes to see if this was maybe a bad idea.  But he wasn't crying at all and aside from suggesting to the five year old that he should probably drag him around on his back and not his tummy, I let them have at it.  Oddly enough, this proved to be one of Eoin's favorite past times. 

So, five year old Eric got the baby out of the swing and started dragging him around the living room.  Soon enough though, the other kids wanted a turn and since I didn't think to have more than one baby at a time...they would have to share.  Aubrey, Aidan, and Eric were now fighting over who got to drag the baby around by his legs.  I suggested taking turns, and after each pass around the room it was the next kid's turn.  This wasn't acceptable and they finally came to their own conclusion.  Eric and Aubrey each took a leg, and Aidan had an arm.  As long as they were all going in the same direction this seemed to work out ok.  For months this was how I made dinner in peace.

Now Eoin is five and in Kindergarten and learning to read.  This morning on my bed he was trying to sound out words on the back of one of my books.  I was only half listening to him because a kid learning to read is extremely boring.  I did perk up though when I heard him say "aaaa ssssss ssss iiiii nnnnn.  Assssiiiin.  Assin!  What's Assin mommy?"  I looked at the book and saw that he was holding one of my true crime books.  Reading true crime is one of my guilty pleasures and at one point I had at least 150 books about rape, murder, and violence under my bed.  If anything mysterious had happened to my family I figured I'd be able to solve the crime all on my own.  Or be the prime suspect.  Whichever.

Never a believer in cencorship I figured words were words and it was fine for him to sound out this book.  "As Sin." I told him.  The name of the book is "Guilty As Sin".  After sounding out murder and torture, I told him to get ready for school.  But first he looked at me and said "mommy, sometimes at night I think there are monsters under my bed."  I looked at him and said "well, that's because there ARE monsters under your bed.  That's where monsters live."  He said "no monsters aren't real!"  I assured him that monsters are very, very real and that they all live under the beds of small boys.  For some reason he thought this was extremely funny. 

I really think my kids are thriving on benign neglect but if nothing else, they will at least have plenty to complain to a therapist about when they grow up. 

Namaste.