Four 'fun' parental duties I didn't find so fun

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Tooth Fairy duty. Tuesday's question about Tooth Fairy rates reminded me how much I didn't like playing Tooth Fairy when my daughters were young. I didn't like it at all. Not because I didn't want to reward my girls for having lost a tooth but because playing Tooth Fairy scared the <cuss> out of me. Seriously. Every time one of the girls went to sleep with high hopes of finding a dollar under her pillow upon awaking (yes, our rate was $1 per tooth), I dreaded having to sneak into the room, stealthily remove a tooth wadded up in tissue from under the pillow, and replace it with a buck. I just knew I'd be midway through the task, with my hand under a sleepy head while feeling for a papery wad, when the little girl's head would slowly turn my way and her eyes would pop right open and stare at me like a crazed Chucky-type doll.

Considering such scenarios scared me to no end. In fact, it scared me so much I sometimes accidentally on purposeforgot one of my children had gone to bed with high hopes of a dollar magically appearing in the night. 'Twas so much easier and less anxiety producing—for me, at least—to apologize come morning for the Tooth Fairy's poor scheduling then pretend she (or he?) had shown up and made the tooth/dollar trade while the girls were at school. Or, to out of guilt give my daughters their proper due, I'd just steel myself all day for the task, then come nightfall get the stupid duty over as quickly as possible. Which is why the Tooth Fairy would sometimes forget; a day or two preparing myself helped. Get in, grab the tooth, drop the dollar, get out. As quickly as possible! And don't look at her face while doing it!

Oh, the lengths we moms go to in order to convince our kids it's okay to allow charming characters with tooth fetishes into their rooms at night.

Bath time. Yes, bath time for many is a lovely and peaceful nightly ritual shared by mother and child. Not when you have three children to bathe at one time. Bath nights were hell, I mean, <cuss> in our household when the girls were little. At least for me. Thirty minutes of three little girls complaining the others were taking all the space...or all the bubbles...or all the water—yes, all the water!—was not fun. Thirty minutes of repeating, Look up! Look up! Look up! as I shampooed and rinsed and listened to at least one of the girls—sometimes all three of them—crying that they had soap in their eyes was not fun. Even the Rub-A-Dub Doggie with the swivel head wasn't distraction enough to make for fun and frivolous tub time. For any of us.

Sure, it would have been smart to bathe one girl at a time. But with a husband working three jobs, thus gone during bath time, who the heck would have watched the other two (remember, the girls are consecutive ages—16 months between the first two, 19 months between the second two) while I joyfully splished, splashed, and shampooed one at a time? Wasn't happening. I was quite thankful when Brianna became old enough to shower instead of being one of the bathers.

Interesting aside: As a grandma, I still dread bath time...at least when I have to bathe both Bubby and Mac at the same time. When I bathe them separately, it truly is one of the most enjoyable of all grandma duties. When they're together, not so enjoyable. So we opt for individual bath times—as long as there's someone else to entertain the non-bather while the bather and I splish, splash, and enjoy the moment.

Slumber parties. As a mother to three daughters, you'd think I'd be a pro at slumber parties. The girls had a lot of them growing up. Heck, I threw a few of my own accord, as I was a Girl Scout leader for many years and slumber parties were a great bonding experience for the troop. At least that was the original intention.

Just like the slumber parties thrown for my daughters' birthdays and more, though, good intentions at the outset of a slumber party flew out the window sometime soon after midnight when the cattiness of tired and cranky girls brought out the worst in everyone. Including me. By 2 a.m. I was usually gritting my teeth and saying to myself, "I wish they would just go home!" Funny thing is, that was often about the same time whichever daughter of mine was hosting the event would creep up the stairs and into my room to say exactly the same thing: "I wish they would Just. Go. Home."

Of course, we'd all forget about how very un-fun slumber parties were come time to consider having another...and another...and another.

Mall shopping. Being mother to three daughters also meant I was supposed to love clothes shopping with my girls. Seems having my kids at a very early age led to me missing that memo, that lesson in the parenting preparedness classes, for I didn't simply dislike shopping at the mall, I hated it. So much so that I did all I could to avoid it.

Back-to-school shopping was particularly dreadful, at the mall or anywhere else. Reason being, for the most part, because money was always tight, and trying to please three fashion-conscious girls on a limited budget was impossible. Which resulted in many tears—and not just from them. Even when we did manage to have enough money for a planned purchase, there were still tears, especially from one particularly difficult shopper we won't name or point out that she's my middle child and mother to my grandsons.

Ironically, Megan loved shopping most of all, was the one most distressed by my aversion to shopping. Strolling the mall together was supposedly the ultimate mother/daughter activity, the best way for girlie-girls to bond with their mamas. Only, I wasn't the girlie-girl kind of mom Megan longed for. Add my hate for shopping to the long list of other girlie things I didn't do—paint my nails, accessorize correctly (or at all), chat endlessly on the phone for no reason—and it's clear why Megan thought for many years that she had surely been adopted.

As a mom, I was supposed to have fun doing all those things above. I didn't. Maybe you feel the same.

Fortunately my list of things I did have fun doing as a parent is longer. Simply remove from the job description the four duties above and all that's left is what I had fun doing.

Well, for the most part.

Dropping a child off at college wasn't all that fun. Saying goodbye as they packed up the last of their closets and left the nest for good wasn't so much fun either.

Maybe you feel the same.

photos: stock.xchng (click photos for details)

Today's question:

What supposedly fun parental duties did you find not so fun?

Hi-ho, hi-ho, it's off to work she'll go

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My daughter Megan, mother to my grandsons, is going back to work. She was and is an early childhood educator. After taking one year off of work to try her hand at being a stay-at-home mother to Bubby and Mac, she's decided to go back to work. Full time.

I'm not thrilled.

But I support her.

One hundred percent.

Megan needs to work. Not because her household needs the money, but because Megan needs to do and be what she is. And what she is is the very most awesome teacher of young ones. A very most awesome teacher who, in order to be the very most awesome of mothers, too, needs to do what she—without a doubt—has been called to do.

This wasn't an easy decision for Megan. She wanted desperately to be the kind of mom who stays at home with her sons, who does crafts and activities and outings with them. And is content with that. She tried her hardest—her busy calendar and plethora of Pinterest projects around the house and put into use for parties in the past year prove it.

But she wasn't content. And that's understandable. Squishing yourself into a box in which others want you to fit makes for a most uncomfortable position. And a most unhappy mommy.

By going back to work as a teacher, Megan will be a better mommy. A content mommy. As her mother, I want Megan to be content. A content mommy, a content teacher. Thankfully Preston agrees, supports her return to work and the extra work that might make for him, too.

So why am I not thrilled?

Well, I must be honest: It's because I want my grandsons to be with their mother. At least most of the time. Most of Megan's time come August 1, though, will be dedicated to full-time teacher mode, as no part-time first-grade teaching opportunities currently exist in her town.

A part-time teaching position would be best for all concerned, Megan and I both agree. But this full-time opportunity, despite the challenges that will accompany it, will be far better for her, her kids, her household than the full-time mommy gig she worked—and really did often enjoy, I must add—this past year.

The full-time mommy gig is hard. It can be frustrating, endless, monotonous, thankless. Most importantly, it's not for everyone. I'm glad Megan realizes that, accepts that instead of trying to be someone she's not. (As well as someone who's not putting to use that expensive private-school education many of us are still paying on, if you'd like to know another brutal truth.)

Yes, part-time work might provide a little more balance in Megan's wants and needs, but a full-time position as a first-grade teacher is what she has to work with. And she will indeed make it work—while making sure things work for my grandsons, too.

Bubby managed to survive and thrive with Mommy working part-time during his first couple of years. This won't be all that different for Mac, as his hours beyond those Megan worked as a part-timer with Bubby will be spent napping at a well-researched and thoroughly vetted daycare center. As long as the bed's comfy and cool, Mac likely won't give a hoot if it's Mommy or daycare personnel twiddling their thumbs in the next room while he sleeps the entire afternoon, as he's wont to do. I have no doubt Mac will survive and thrive, too. Probably even better than he might have if Mommy didn't work, thanks to the social interaction he'll get with kiddos his own age at the daycare center.

And Bubby? Well, Bubby will be delighted to see Mommy off and on throughout the day as he will attend preschool at the very same school where his Mommy's working. When Megan gave him the news she was returning to teaching, a big ol' smile spread across Bubby's face, she reported, as he expressed genuine pleasure at hearing Mommy's good news.

Bubby's reaction to the news of Megan returning to her true calling is admirable. And it's how all of her family, friends, fans should be responding—by being genuinely supportive. A mommy's got to do what a mommy's got to do. And what Megan Mommy's got to do is get into the classroom and be awesome with other kids. So she can be awesome at home with her own kids, my grandkids.

What more could a mother want for her daughter?

What more could a grandma want for her grandsons?

Congratulations, Megan! I applaud you. I support you. One hundred percent.

Today's question:

Removing the child factor and what you did/do as a working or stay-at-home mom, would you rather work outside the home full time, part time, or not at all?

Brotherly love

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In my family, there's not much of a tradition of close, loving, secret-sharing relationships between the female siblings. I read in books, see in movies, even observe in some of my friends and their sisters the ideal sisterly state. In the real world, though, in my real world that's flush with far more females than males, it just hasn't been. Not for those sisters who came before me nor for those who've come after.

My mom and her two sisters clearly love one another, but I'd venture to say calling each other best friends would be pushing it. My sisters and I? Well, we did—and do—love one another, but in a group of five females, you can imagine the competitions, the cat fights. Or maybe you can't, if you're one of the fortunate ones who indeed calls your sister your best friend.

Even my own daughters—whom I have no doubt whatsoever love and cherish one other dearly—aren't now and never have been a tight-knit trio. Nor is there even an exclusive duo among the three, leaving a third wheel to roll on her own. (Which, truth be told, I accept, for having one child continually left out and heartbroken would be an even more difficult situation than the overall arms length at which they all seem to keep one another.)

It saddens me that somehow, somewhere, the sisters-as-best-friends gene seems to have skipped generation after generation after generation in my family. I envy those sisters for whom the sappy adages cross-stitched on pillows and emblazoned across coffee mugs ring true. I wanted that. I wanted that for my daughters.

When it comes to my grandsons, though, they do have that. And what a heartwarming delight it is to see. Bubby and Mac are unabashedly best buds, best friends who love and cherish, adore and idolize one another. Countless times during their visit I witnessed one reaching out to the other just to cuddle or kiss, share a toy or a moment. Sometimes I'd see one little hand pat a shoulder, an arm, a cheek as if they simply needed assurance their best buddy was still there.

Just as many times, I watched one hop on the other as though a bell audible to only them had been rung, signaling the start of a wrestling match. They'd giggle and roll and squeal in delight. Then just as quickly, the match would be over and they'd move on to another activity, together or solo, secure in knowing their brother, their best friend, was nearby if the urge to wrestle and wrangle struck once again.

 

Of course Bubby and Mac argue, compete for attention, clamor for the very same toys and don't hold back physically or vocally in challenging one another for what they feel is rightfully theirs. But once the victor is declared—by virtue of who's most determined to get their way or by virtue of Mommy or another adult breaking up the bickering—they're right back to lovin' on one another. No grudges, no resentment.

I'm not sure how it happened. I don't know whether Megan subconsciously—or consciously—did something absolutely perfectly right in creating the connection between the boys, instilled something that eluded me when raising my girls, or if it's just luck of the draw and she came up with the winning and perfectly matched pair.

Whatever the reason, whatever the cause, I'd say that Bubby and Mac are the true winners. I hope their winning streak continues. They'll always be brothers, of course. I'm crossing my fingers and saying my prayers that they'll always—and in all ways—be best friends, as well.

Today's question:

Which of your siblings did you consider your best friend as children?

Do you solemnly swear?

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Swearing Bubby edit.png
 

Seems Bubby, who will be four years old next week, has learned the power of swear words, and he wielded that power mighty and strong this past week. While in public, at the splash pad. While in time-out at the splash pad for hitting a friend, in fact.

Bubby's time-out is what elicited his use of the illicit language. It wasn't the F-word. Not the GD-word or the S-word. No dad-from-A-Christmas-Story style rant. Bubby did, though, go whole hog in hollering out the H-word. Again and again and again. To Mommy.

Not the H-word you might expect, though, as the H-word flying from Bubby's mouth and directed right at Mommy was hate. As in "I hate you."

My sweet little Bubby told his mommy he hates her for putting him in time out. For humiliating him in public (though deservedly so, I say). For making him stop splashing at the splash pad and sit this one out. Saying the H-word, of course, increased Bubby's punishment by way of he and Mommy (and innocent Baby Mac, too) having to leave the splash pad and his friends so Bubby could be sent to his room until he could find his happy heart as well as words of apology that would sufficiently satisfy Mommy.

It was Bubby's first time swearing at his mom. And in Megan's house—as it was in my house when Megan was young—hate is indeed a swear word. At least when it's directed at people. You can hate broccoli, but you sure as heck better never, ever, ever say you hate a person, no matter how angry you might be, no matter how much you really actually dislike the person it's directed at.

The S-word was a no-no in our household, too. That being shut up. Nope, not allowed in my house back then, not allowed in Megan's house now.

Of course the real S-word and H-word, along with all the expected consonant-beginning cuss words (plus the A-word, too) weren't allowed either. Swearing was a sign of ignorance, I tried to stress to my girls. People only use swear words because they're too stupid to come up with something better, I told them, convinced them...for the most part. (I'm sure they wondered why their mom and dad got really stupid sometimes and spouted nonsensical swear words left and right for unfathomable reasons. It was only occasionally, though. I swear.)

I did understand while raising my daughters, though, that sometimes there really isn't a smart word for saying what's roiling and boiling inside, and a cuss word is the only thing that will properly express the inner turmoil, frustration, rage. So I allowed the girls one swear word, beginning about the time they were in junior high. That one cuss word was crap. To me, crap isn't that big of a deal. Sure, I didn't want them telling their teachers, "This is crap!" or anything of that sort. But if they ever felt so strongly about something that they couldn't muster a more masterful word, they would not be punished for uttering the C-word.

So they did. My oldest daughter in particular. She used that C-word as often as possible. More than I would have liked, to be honest, but how could I reverse the rules for overuse. It would fade, I figured. She was using the power she was given to its utmost ability.

Funny thing is, as the girls got older—and no longer living at home—the younger two stretched their language skills by incorporating some of the formerly banned words into their vocabularies. Occasionally far more often than I'd like. But they're adults, that's their choice. But Brianna, the one who most often spouted crap as a teen, chooses as an adult to rarely swear except to say crap. You know she must be really, really, REALLY angry if the S-word or B-word or any other cuss word besides crap comes out of her mouth. The F-word? Oh, my. I don't think I've ever heard her say it.

(Though I have no doubt she has said the F-word and other choice swear words at times, considering some of the relationship turmoil she's dealt with, and I can't blame her. I'd have been saying EFF this and EFF that and EFF you far more often and far sooner than my fair-mouthed daughter if I'd have faced off with a few of the EFFers <cuss>ers she's befriended now and again.)

I digress...

The bottom line is that...well...that I have three points I'm trying to make but can't seem to pull them together into one coherent closing. So I'll make it easy on myself and on you with bullet points:

  • Bubby is swearing. Sort of. Which is a huge deal on one hand, not so huge of a deal on the other. The huge-deal hand is that he said he hates his mother, which is far worse, at least to me—and to Megan—than if he had told her to EFF off. The H-word is one of the most powerful swear words a child can wield to effectively pierce a mommy's heart. Far more hurtful than the F-word. That's just my opinion; I'm sure there are others.

  • Kids shouldn't be allowed to cuss—yes, not even if Mommy and Daddy get to do it. But I prefer to think it's one of the benefits of becoming an adult, one of the things a kid can look forward to doing when they grow up. Like gambling or drinking or choosing to never eat broccoli or lima beans again. Again, that's just my opinion; I'm sure there are others.

  • That said, though, I do think kids should be given one Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free cuss word to use when the situation—to their thinking—demands. Once more, that's just my opinion; I'm sure there are others.

Actually, I just had another thought, another point to make. So here's a fourth bullet:

  • Maybe what kids and others who don't want to seem crass and foul-mouthed in public should do is use a universal sign much like the finger quotes, but one that designates the fake cuss word. Kind of like when I write <cuss> and <cuss> and <cussity-cuss-cuss> on Grandma's Briefs.

Maybe? Or would that quickly become just as <cuss> annoying as those <cuss> finger quotes?

Today's question:

What happens when your kids or grandkids swear in front of you? What happens when you swear in front of them?