I am a parenting hog. I want all the control. I want to make all the decisions. And I want my husband to do exactly what I do. I would hate being married to me.
Fortunately, I unwittingly picked a guy who is pretty much willing to go with this program. Despite the fact that I have more masculine traits than he does, (we once took a test that we found in a paperback book in a used book store, the quasi-scientific equivalent of a Cosmo Quiz—I came out leaning towards the masculine side, and Kevin the feminine) we have settled into very traditional gender roles. Kevin takes the morning train. He works from 9-5 and then, he takes another home again to find me waiting for him. (Lines totally stolen from Sheena Easton, but, alas, true. Please don’t sue me, Sheena.) Meanwhile, I take care of all things Sophie—from baths to doctor’s appointments, from laundry to preschool drop-off. This is not to say that Kevin doesn’t pitch in. He does. We do her bedtime routine together almost every night. He plays with her while I cook dinner. And in the mornings, whenever possible, he’ll help with her shoes or brush her teeth or make sure she eats.
There is a price to pay for this—for the control. For one, if I want it done in a particular way (say, I want her to sit in her chair while she eats and she wants to sit in daddy’s lap, stroke his beard, and chew each bite with glacial slowness) I need to either 1) leave the room and what will be will be or 2) do it myself. If I stay and watch, the tension builds up inside my body and becomes so great that I say something I regret, or I have to take over.
I wish this wasn’t true. I wish I could let it go. Parenting together is the hardest thing.
The other morning, we were all sitting around the breakfast table and Sophie told us about a negative interaction she had with a peer at school. The other child had told her she didn’t want to be her friend anymore—she wanted another girl to be her friend. Sophie tilted her chin to her neck and looking downtrodden, said, “I felt left out.” It is a phrase I taught her in an attempt to give words to her emotions during a similar incident. Though I believe her feelings were hurt in this instance, there was also something melodramatic about the presentation. It seemed to me that she was trying to evoke a particular response from Kevin and me.
So, I tried to treat this admission with lightness. Sophie has a tendency to get locked into routines. I could see this becoming a daily drama. I took a very problem-focused approach: “Well, if she says something like that, just go find someone else to play with. She gets moody sometimes. So do you. It will blow over.” I saw a look in Kevin’s eye that led me to believe he didn’t agree with my approach.
Then, Kevin, who is very attuned and takes great care to ensure that Sophie’s feelings are acknowledged, leaned in and said, empathically, “it really hurts your feelings when a friend says something like that to you.” Sophie nodded.
I felt that twinge, the discomfort that arises from disagreement. A tightness in my chest. But then, I overrode it. It was almost as though I had stepped out of my body and was watching the three of us having this complex interaction. I saw Kevin’s intent, his sweet parenting style, his very different way of conceptualizing this moment, and I stopped judging it.
I let it go.
And, since that conversation, she hasn’t said another word about it. Maybe all that she needed was a father’s feminine touch.
Showing posts with label co-parenting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label co-parenting. Show all posts
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Other People's Kids
Other People’s Kids
You’re on the playground and another child throws sand in your kid’s eyes. His/her mother is across the playground changing her second child’s diaper. Do you:
a. Reprimand the child, “No throwing sand!” and/or instruct the child, “You need to keep your shovel low….”
b. Talk to your own child about the other child’s behavior, “That was naughty. He shouldn’t have thrown sand in your eyes. We never throw sand.”
c. Find the parent, “Your son just threw sand in my child’s eyes…”
d. Tend to your own child and say nothing. Maybe praise your own kid for not throwing sand.
e. Do something else: ____________________________________________________
Maybe it’s the psychologist in me. Maybe it’s personality-driven, but I often find myself in a position where I am tempted to modify the behavior of someone else’s child—not because I think I know better or I believe the parents of these children are lacking in skill. In fact, I typically get the urge when I witness a child doing something parents generally wouldn’t want their child doing i.e., posing a danger to himself or other, but the parent is out of sight/earshot. I feel a strong duty to communally parent. I do think it takes more than Kevin and me to raise Sophia. I want other parents looking out for and helping my child become a kind and considerate human being. Therefore, I feel the imperative to do the same.
But…and here’s a big but…I realize that not everyone feels the same way that I do about this. And even if I did the exact same thing that they would in that situation…it makes them uncomfortable that I’m the one doing it. So what to do, what to do? Every child is different. Every situation is different. I try to evaluate the kid and the situation as quickly as possible, which requires making some informed assumptions about his/her motivation for the behavior, and make my move. I have shot withering looks, but not said anything. I have gently suggested an alternative behavior. I have quietly scolded. I have redirected. I have modeled a new and improved way to act. I have done nothing, but felt remiss.
But you never know when another parent is going to take you to the mat on this. Or simply express discomfort.
Even with friends. Good friends. People you have known a long time, extending your parenting to their children can be complicated. I can think of at least one occasion on which a parent was annoyed with me—not for reprimanding the child in question, but for trying to help him down from a height so that he wouldn’t hurt himself. The parent felt that he should experience the consequence of his actions. I didn’t agree. Not in this case. I kind of believe that if you can prevent pain and suffering…you should do it.
I understand others may think I’m being over-protective. And they may be right.
My friend Nan and I have a deal. We have each explicitly given the other permission to discipline our kid(s). Meaning if I, hypothetically, catch one of her boys throwing rocks in the other’s general direction (be it intentional or not) I am allowed to redirect, reprimand, and/or remove said rocks. And, by the same token, if my daughter rips something from her daughter’s grasp, Nancy is allowed to rip it right back out of her hot little hands (and redirect, reprimand, etc.) It is such a relief to have this agreement. I don’t have to worry about stepping on her toes or holding my tongue. Granted, Nancy and I have VERY similar parenting styles and generally “correct” our children for the same offenses in the same way. I imagine if Nancy took out the wooden spoon each time Sophia had a property rights issue I might feel differently. But how we parent has always been part of our conversation. And because we struggle together with these questions, we have a deep understanding of the frame of expectations we have for our kids.
But it’s not a conversation I’ve had with every parent of every child I know. Sometimes, it’s less explicit—more intuitive.
The other night, when over at a neighbor’s house and I caught myself saying, “no,” to her son, I checked in with his mom.
“I realize that we’ve never had this discussion, but is it okay if I say no to your kids?” I asked, albeit a little late, but fairly certain of her response. I have watched, with gratitude (and only mild embarrassment that I wasn’t doing it myself), when she has encouraged Sophia to couch her demands with a “please” and “thank you.” My neighbor’s children are, hands down, the most polite kids I have ever encountered, and it’s all due to her consistent encouragement that they mind their manners. Something I could work on.
“Of course!” she called from the other room.
“I thought so. But I wanted to be sure….” And it felt good to be sure.
But one mother told me about a similar conversation she had with a friend didn’t go quite as well. “You know, you can discipline my kids if you see them misbehaving,” she offered to her friend.
The friend was appalled, “Oh no. I just couldn’t!” She insisted.
“And she wouldn’t—even though I gave her permission,” the mother was surprised by her friend’s reaction.
“You know what that probably means,” I said, “she doesn’t want you disciplining her kids.”
“Oh!” The mother acknowledged that this was very likely the case. And though she could respect that, she didn’t think she’d be getting together with her much in the future.
At least she knows where she stands.
You’re on the playground and another child throws sand in your kid’s eyes. His/her mother is across the playground changing her second child’s diaper. Do you:
a. Reprimand the child, “No throwing sand!” and/or instruct the child, “You need to keep your shovel low….”
b. Talk to your own child about the other child’s behavior, “That was naughty. He shouldn’t have thrown sand in your eyes. We never throw sand.”
c. Find the parent, “Your son just threw sand in my child’s eyes…”
d. Tend to your own child and say nothing. Maybe praise your own kid for not throwing sand.
e. Do something else: ____________________________________________________
Maybe it’s the psychologist in me. Maybe it’s personality-driven, but I often find myself in a position where I am tempted to modify the behavior of someone else’s child—not because I think I know better or I believe the parents of these children are lacking in skill. In fact, I typically get the urge when I witness a child doing something parents generally wouldn’t want their child doing i.e., posing a danger to himself or other, but the parent is out of sight/earshot. I feel a strong duty to communally parent. I do think it takes more than Kevin and me to raise Sophia. I want other parents looking out for and helping my child become a kind and considerate human being. Therefore, I feel the imperative to do the same.
But…and here’s a big but…I realize that not everyone feels the same way that I do about this. And even if I did the exact same thing that they would in that situation…it makes them uncomfortable that I’m the one doing it. So what to do, what to do? Every child is different. Every situation is different. I try to evaluate the kid and the situation as quickly as possible, which requires making some informed assumptions about his/her motivation for the behavior, and make my move. I have shot withering looks, but not said anything. I have gently suggested an alternative behavior. I have quietly scolded. I have redirected. I have modeled a new and improved way to act. I have done nothing, but felt remiss.
But you never know when another parent is going to take you to the mat on this. Or simply express discomfort.
Even with friends. Good friends. People you have known a long time, extending your parenting to their children can be complicated. I can think of at least one occasion on which a parent was annoyed with me—not for reprimanding the child in question, but for trying to help him down from a height so that he wouldn’t hurt himself. The parent felt that he should experience the consequence of his actions. I didn’t agree. Not in this case. I kind of believe that if you can prevent pain and suffering…you should do it.
I understand others may think I’m being over-protective. And they may be right.
My friend Nan and I have a deal. We have each explicitly given the other permission to discipline our kid(s). Meaning if I, hypothetically, catch one of her boys throwing rocks in the other’s general direction (be it intentional or not) I am allowed to redirect, reprimand, and/or remove said rocks. And, by the same token, if my daughter rips something from her daughter’s grasp, Nancy is allowed to rip it right back out of her hot little hands (and redirect, reprimand, etc.) It is such a relief to have this agreement. I don’t have to worry about stepping on her toes or holding my tongue. Granted, Nancy and I have VERY similar parenting styles and generally “correct” our children for the same offenses in the same way. I imagine if Nancy took out the wooden spoon each time Sophia had a property rights issue I might feel differently. But how we parent has always been part of our conversation. And because we struggle together with these questions, we have a deep understanding of the frame of expectations we have for our kids.
But it’s not a conversation I’ve had with every parent of every child I know. Sometimes, it’s less explicit—more intuitive.
The other night, when over at a neighbor’s house and I caught myself saying, “no,” to her son, I checked in with his mom.
“I realize that we’ve never had this discussion, but is it okay if I say no to your kids?” I asked, albeit a little late, but fairly certain of her response. I have watched, with gratitude (and only mild embarrassment that I wasn’t doing it myself), when she has encouraged Sophia to couch her demands with a “please” and “thank you.” My neighbor’s children are, hands down, the most polite kids I have ever encountered, and it’s all due to her consistent encouragement that they mind their manners. Something I could work on.
“Of course!” she called from the other room.
“I thought so. But I wanted to be sure….” And it felt good to be sure.
But one mother told me about a similar conversation she had with a friend didn’t go quite as well. “You know, you can discipline my kids if you see them misbehaving,” she offered to her friend.
The friend was appalled, “Oh no. I just couldn’t!” She insisted.
“And she wouldn’t—even though I gave her permission,” the mother was surprised by her friend’s reaction.
“You know what that probably means,” I said, “she doesn’t want you disciplining her kids.”
“Oh!” The mother acknowledged that this was very likely the case. And though she could respect that, she didn’t think she’d be getting together with her much in the future.
At least she knows where she stands.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Ode to Dad
I could not do what my husband does.
Most of his nights are restless. He gets up, showers, dresses and comes upstairs for a dose of Sophia before he leaves for work.
She is elated to see him. She asks him to read to her. To play with puzzles. She hands him pretend lollipops. She shares her stuffed animals. “This is YOU, daddy,” she tells him, handing him a large panda. “This is me,” she says, snuggling a smaller one.
Whether he has slept 8 hours or 8 minutes, he turns it on for her. He reads her a book, between bites of his breakfast. He combs her hair, while I wash my face. He puts on a tiger puppet show, while I change her diaper.
And then it’s time he should be leaving. She begs, she bribes; she wheels and deals.
But he has to go to work, so she lets him go.
Yes, he has to go to work, so he lets her go.
And Sophie and I are left to our devices (vices) for the day.
Her father is never far from her thoughts. If I point out a mother and baby in a book, she corrects me, “Actually, that’s the DADDY penguin.” I am not offended. I am touched. I am pleased.
After her nap, her expectation begins to rise. If he has walked to work that morning, and his car is still in the driveway, she’ll exclaim upon seeing the car, “Daddy’s HOME!” And I’ll have to correct her, “Actually, he walked to work this morning. His car is here, but he is not.”
She is disappointed. She consoles herself with thoughts of what she will do when daddy comes home. “When he comes home, he will play doctor with me.”
“Yes,” I say, “he will play doctor with you. You will lie on the couch and pretend to be the patient. He will examine your leg and find that it is broken.” (I’m not being morbid. She loves this.)
“Because I was doing this,” Sophie fills in, spinning around the room, dizzying herself. “And I fell down.” She mock-slumps to the floor.
“Yes,” I continue, “you fell down.” I scoop her up and lay her on the couch. “And so you need a needle shot.” I aim the medicine syringe at her knee and pretend to give her the shot. (Not medically accurate, perhaps, but it makes her happy.) “And he’ll wrap up your leg,” I add, winding an ace bandage around her.
She leaps up from the couch, satisfied with the promise of future medical attention by Doctor Daddy, and we get absorbed in some other meanwhile activity. Something that fills the time before Kevin comes home.
It is six thirty. He comes in through the back door while I am cooking dinner and Sophie is stealing slices of pepper off of the cutting board. “Pepper thief!” I exclaim.
He has had a hard day. I see it in the curve of his shoulders. The circles under his eyes. He’s tired. He’s sweaty from the walk home. He’s in a t-shirt, his work shirt wrapped around his waist. His face breaks into a smile. “Who’s a pepper thief?” he asks, grabbing her.
“I am!” she shrieks gleefully. She follows him into the bedroom to watch him change, and I can hear their sweet conversation from the kitchen.
“How was your day, Daddy?”
“Hard. How was yours?”
“Good. Mommy played doctor with me. She said YOU would play doctor with me when you get home.”
“Are you all healed?”
“No. I fell down. I need a needle shot.”
They go to the living room with an energy that has long left me, he plays with her. They pretend, they chat, they read until dinner is ready. I call them to the table.
He wrestles her into her high chair. He brings her a glass of milk. He sets the table and pulls out a bottle of wine.
“Can I have some vino?” Sophie asks. “No,” we both answer in unison. “Its an adult beverage,” he adds.
“Oh! That’s sounds good.” Sophie replies.
When we try to talk, sharing bits from our day…news heard, the “That Baby” report (as in, “you wouldn’t believe what that baby said today…”), our own experiences, Sophie interrupts, “Mommy, Daddy talk to ME, please.” (What we have trained her to do, rather than have her whine for attention.) He finishes his thought, turns to her, and incorporates her in the conversation.
“We are a whole family,” Sophie observes, happy to be included.
After dinner, I march us upstairs. “Let’s go, maggot,” I bark at Sophie, “Hup two three four, hup two three four.” And she marches up the stairs, her daddy at her heels.
“Read me a STORY, Daddy,” Sophie begs. The day has come full circle. We are all in my bed. I am changing Sophie out of a soggy diaper, her legs flailing in the air, as Kevin reads to her, holding the book over her head so she can see the pictures. I go to get the toothbrush and I hear Kevin tickling Sophie who alternately cries, “NO STOP TICKLING ME!” And, “MORE TICKLELS PLEASE!”
Part of me could be exasperated. It’s bedtime and he’s working her into a frenzy. But it’s THEIR time. And they are so happy together. I used to interrupt these moments. Now, I try not to (except when its really really late, or we have to wake up early the next day; then I play the heavy), because I have all day. But he has this.
We talk about work-life balance as if it is a female issue. As if we women have cornered the market on a divided self. Men are squeezed out of the debate by our resentment. It is assumed that they are fortunate to have the defined role of provider. It is assumed that they will accept their lot, working a second shift, playing second fiddle to mom, parenting around the edges of the day. As if they didn’t care every bit as much as we do about being present for and being a part of our children’s lives. As if they don’t feel that ache every time they walk away. As if they don’t wish they could “have it all.”
I appreciate your struggle.
I love who you are as a father.
I admire all that you do.
Most of his nights are restless. He gets up, showers, dresses and comes upstairs for a dose of Sophia before he leaves for work.
She is elated to see him. She asks him to read to her. To play with puzzles. She hands him pretend lollipops. She shares her stuffed animals. “This is YOU, daddy,” she tells him, handing him a large panda. “This is me,” she says, snuggling a smaller one.
Whether he has slept 8 hours or 8 minutes, he turns it on for her. He reads her a book, between bites of his breakfast. He combs her hair, while I wash my face. He puts on a tiger puppet show, while I change her diaper.
And then it’s time he should be leaving. She begs, she bribes; she wheels and deals.
But he has to go to work, so she lets him go.
Yes, he has to go to work, so he lets her go.
And Sophie and I are left to our devices (vices) for the day.
Her father is never far from her thoughts. If I point out a mother and baby in a book, she corrects me, “Actually, that’s the DADDY penguin.” I am not offended. I am touched. I am pleased.
After her nap, her expectation begins to rise. If he has walked to work that morning, and his car is still in the driveway, she’ll exclaim upon seeing the car, “Daddy’s HOME!” And I’ll have to correct her, “Actually, he walked to work this morning. His car is here, but he is not.”
She is disappointed. She consoles herself with thoughts of what she will do when daddy comes home. “When he comes home, he will play doctor with me.”
“Yes,” I say, “he will play doctor with you. You will lie on the couch and pretend to be the patient. He will examine your leg and find that it is broken.” (I’m not being morbid. She loves this.)
“Because I was doing this,” Sophie fills in, spinning around the room, dizzying herself. “And I fell down.” She mock-slumps to the floor.
“Yes,” I continue, “you fell down.” I scoop her up and lay her on the couch. “And so you need a needle shot.” I aim the medicine syringe at her knee and pretend to give her the shot. (Not medically accurate, perhaps, but it makes her happy.) “And he’ll wrap up your leg,” I add, winding an ace bandage around her.
She leaps up from the couch, satisfied with the promise of future medical attention by Doctor Daddy, and we get absorbed in some other meanwhile activity. Something that fills the time before Kevin comes home.
It is six thirty. He comes in through the back door while I am cooking dinner and Sophie is stealing slices of pepper off of the cutting board. “Pepper thief!” I exclaim.
He has had a hard day. I see it in the curve of his shoulders. The circles under his eyes. He’s tired. He’s sweaty from the walk home. He’s in a t-shirt, his work shirt wrapped around his waist. His face breaks into a smile. “Who’s a pepper thief?” he asks, grabbing her.
“I am!” she shrieks gleefully. She follows him into the bedroom to watch him change, and I can hear their sweet conversation from the kitchen.
“How was your day, Daddy?”
“Hard. How was yours?”
“Good. Mommy played doctor with me. She said YOU would play doctor with me when you get home.”
“Are you all healed?”
“No. I fell down. I need a needle shot.”
They go to the living room with an energy that has long left me, he plays with her. They pretend, they chat, they read until dinner is ready. I call them to the table.
He wrestles her into her high chair. He brings her a glass of milk. He sets the table and pulls out a bottle of wine.
“Can I have some vino?” Sophie asks. “No,” we both answer in unison. “Its an adult beverage,” he adds.
“Oh! That’s sounds good.” Sophie replies.
When we try to talk, sharing bits from our day…news heard, the “That Baby” report (as in, “you wouldn’t believe what that baby said today…”), our own experiences, Sophie interrupts, “Mommy, Daddy talk to ME, please.” (What we have trained her to do, rather than have her whine for attention.) He finishes his thought, turns to her, and incorporates her in the conversation.
“We are a whole family,” Sophie observes, happy to be included.
After dinner, I march us upstairs. “Let’s go, maggot,” I bark at Sophie, “Hup two three four, hup two three four.” And she marches up the stairs, her daddy at her heels.
“Read me a STORY, Daddy,” Sophie begs. The day has come full circle. We are all in my bed. I am changing Sophie out of a soggy diaper, her legs flailing in the air, as Kevin reads to her, holding the book over her head so she can see the pictures. I go to get the toothbrush and I hear Kevin tickling Sophie who alternately cries, “NO STOP TICKLING ME!” And, “MORE TICKLELS PLEASE!”
Part of me could be exasperated. It’s bedtime and he’s working her into a frenzy. But it’s THEIR time. And they are so happy together. I used to interrupt these moments. Now, I try not to (except when its really really late, or we have to wake up early the next day; then I play the heavy), because I have all day. But he has this.
We talk about work-life balance as if it is a female issue. As if we women have cornered the market on a divided self. Men are squeezed out of the debate by our resentment. It is assumed that they are fortunate to have the defined role of provider. It is assumed that they will accept their lot, working a second shift, playing second fiddle to mom, parenting around the edges of the day. As if they didn’t care every bit as much as we do about being present for and being a part of our children’s lives. As if they don’t feel that ache every time they walk away. As if they don’t wish they could “have it all.”
I appreciate your struggle.
I love who you are as a father.
I admire all that you do.
Monday, May 17, 2010
If Mommy Says No...
The psychological term is splitting, more commonly known playing one parent against the other. All kids do it, my husband reminds me. Even Sophia.
Sophia and I are at the supermarket. I’m comparing prices of little boxes of organic milk. (Though expensive, it’s cheaper than buying a new fresh half-gallon each week we go up to my mother’s and stay overnight. And, I’m suspicious of the “Skim Plus!” she buys. Just the thought of drinking milk with a thickening agent to make it taste more like whole milk makes me ill. But I digress.) Sophie spies the milk in the red boxes…vanilla-flavored organic milk. The one that has a whopping 29 grams of sugar per serving. A treat she once had while we were out to dinner with friends. "I want THAT ONE!" she demands, pointing to the box. I say something to the effect of, “over my dead body,” (not a verbatim quote, but similar in sentiment).
Had she not been in the grocery cart, she would have most definitely thrown herself on the ground sobbing and cursing my name. Confined to her seat, she merely wailed and lamented her vanilla milk-less fate. Only two strategies work in a situation like this: ignoring and distraction. Ignoring is hard in a grocery store at 5:30 pm when you and every other mother within a 10-mile radius is shopping for dinner. I can’t just leave her there and continue to peruse the isle…and it IS a little embarrassing to have her go on in this way. So I go for distraction. I pull a bottle of lemonade off the shelf and say, “I’m getting daddy lemonade. Perhaps I will let you have some as a treat, sometime [watered down, of course].” The tantrum comes to a screeching halt and Sophie grins, “Daddy lets me have LOTS and LOTS of lemonade.”
This comment comes on the heels of an early morning confession. When Kevin and I went to pull her out of her crib today, the first thing she announced was that she ate dinner at the neighbor’s house and had lemonade to drink with her daddy. I glanced at Kevin, who admitted, it was true. She did.
Perhaps this requires a little backstory: A less rigid parent than I might be wondering, “What’s wrong with lemonade?” I have a couple issues with juice. First of all, there is the sugar content (the particular variety I pulled off the shelf has 32 grams per serving). It is near impossible to brush Sophia’s teeth. Only recently have I stopped sitting on top of her, prying her mouth open and doing the best job I can while Kevin reads Curious George Takes a Job (or another ultra-sexy book). So, I fear the day we go to the dentist and he has to sedate her while he drills every pearly little tooth in her mouth. Then there are the empty calories. Back in the day, when Sophia ate very poorly, I was loathe to have her fill up on any kind of drink and then refuse a more nutritious meal…so it was water, milk or nothing. Since she’s been eating a variety of healthy foods and is solidly in the 10th-25th percentile for weight, I’ve relaxed…but I still prefer her to drink bone-building milk or plain-old hydrating water. And then there is cultivation of taste. I know that kids who don’t drink milk, don’t develop a taste or appreciation for it. They are less likely to select it as a drink option on their own later in life, and therefore tend to be more deficient in the nutrients it provides. So it goes beyond the here and now for me. It has to do with laying a foundation for healthy life choices.
That evening, at home, I told Kevin what Sophia said. I related the story with a knowing grin that communicated, “I know you’ve been giving her juice behind my back.”
Kevin was offended. “She’s splitting us.” He told me. “She’s telling you what she thinks will manipulate you into giving her more juice.”
I still didn’t believe him. I believed her. After all, her impulse to report her experience these days was so great she’d save up a detail…like having juice at the neighbors…all night long and blurt it out with pure joy at the first sight of me.
Kevin read my skepticism and explained why it was so offensive. “It’s true that left to my own devices, I wouldn’t be as restrictive as you are with the juice. But I think your rationale is sound, and I’ve bought into it wholesale. I fully support you on this. When we’re in our own house, I do exactly as you wish. But occasionally, when we’re somewhere else and if everyone is having juice…and another parent gives it to her, I don’t force the issue. We’re guests in their home. I’m not going to push back.”
I listened to him. And it’s true. Kevin does support me on this. And not just on the juice issue but the unprocessed, organic food issue. And the tv issue. And countless other issues/ preferences I have when it comes to raising Sophia.
I consider myself to be lucky on this. Because what it comes down to it’s not the individual issues that are important, but the united front that we present on these individual issues. The power resides with us, the parents. Sophia is not a wedge between Kevin and I, but a shared joy. Sophia feels secure in knowing that there are rules consistently enforced.
So the next time Sophia pulls out the divide and conquer strategy and tells me that daddy gives her lots and lots of juice (or ice cream, or lollypops) with the very high hope that I will “follow suit,” the knowing grin will be directed at her, not Kevin. And I’ll probably say something like, “Daddy and I talked about this and we agree….”
Sophia and I are at the supermarket. I’m comparing prices of little boxes of organic milk. (Though expensive, it’s cheaper than buying a new fresh half-gallon each week we go up to my mother’s and stay overnight. And, I’m suspicious of the “Skim Plus!” she buys. Just the thought of drinking milk with a thickening agent to make it taste more like whole milk makes me ill. But I digress.) Sophie spies the milk in the red boxes…vanilla-flavored organic milk. The one that has a whopping 29 grams of sugar per serving. A treat she once had while we were out to dinner with friends. "I want THAT ONE!" she demands, pointing to the box. I say something to the effect of, “over my dead body,” (not a verbatim quote, but similar in sentiment).
Had she not been in the grocery cart, she would have most definitely thrown herself on the ground sobbing and cursing my name. Confined to her seat, she merely wailed and lamented her vanilla milk-less fate. Only two strategies work in a situation like this: ignoring and distraction. Ignoring is hard in a grocery store at 5:30 pm when you and every other mother within a 10-mile radius is shopping for dinner. I can’t just leave her there and continue to peruse the isle…and it IS a little embarrassing to have her go on in this way. So I go for distraction. I pull a bottle of lemonade off the shelf and say, “I’m getting daddy lemonade. Perhaps I will let you have some as a treat, sometime [watered down, of course].” The tantrum comes to a screeching halt and Sophie grins, “Daddy lets me have LOTS and LOTS of lemonade.”
This comment comes on the heels of an early morning confession. When Kevin and I went to pull her out of her crib today, the first thing she announced was that she ate dinner at the neighbor’s house and had lemonade to drink with her daddy. I glanced at Kevin, who admitted, it was true. She did.
Perhaps this requires a little backstory: A less rigid parent than I might be wondering, “What’s wrong with lemonade?” I have a couple issues with juice. First of all, there is the sugar content (the particular variety I pulled off the shelf has 32 grams per serving). It is near impossible to brush Sophia’s teeth. Only recently have I stopped sitting on top of her, prying her mouth open and doing the best job I can while Kevin reads Curious George Takes a Job (or another ultra-sexy book). So, I fear the day we go to the dentist and he has to sedate her while he drills every pearly little tooth in her mouth. Then there are the empty calories. Back in the day, when Sophia ate very poorly, I was loathe to have her fill up on any kind of drink and then refuse a more nutritious meal…so it was water, milk or nothing. Since she’s been eating a variety of healthy foods and is solidly in the 10th-25th percentile for weight, I’ve relaxed…but I still prefer her to drink bone-building milk or plain-old hydrating water. And then there is cultivation of taste. I know that kids who don’t drink milk, don’t develop a taste or appreciation for it. They are less likely to select it as a drink option on their own later in life, and therefore tend to be more deficient in the nutrients it provides. So it goes beyond the here and now for me. It has to do with laying a foundation for healthy life choices.
That evening, at home, I told Kevin what Sophia said. I related the story with a knowing grin that communicated, “I know you’ve been giving her juice behind my back.”
Kevin was offended. “She’s splitting us.” He told me. “She’s telling you what she thinks will manipulate you into giving her more juice.”
I still didn’t believe him. I believed her. After all, her impulse to report her experience these days was so great she’d save up a detail…like having juice at the neighbors…all night long and blurt it out with pure joy at the first sight of me.
Kevin read my skepticism and explained why it was so offensive. “It’s true that left to my own devices, I wouldn’t be as restrictive as you are with the juice. But I think your rationale is sound, and I’ve bought into it wholesale. I fully support you on this. When we’re in our own house, I do exactly as you wish. But occasionally, when we’re somewhere else and if everyone is having juice…and another parent gives it to her, I don’t force the issue. We’re guests in their home. I’m not going to push back.”
I listened to him. And it’s true. Kevin does support me on this. And not just on the juice issue but the unprocessed, organic food issue. And the tv issue. And countless other issues/ preferences I have when it comes to raising Sophia.
I consider myself to be lucky on this. Because what it comes down to it’s not the individual issues that are important, but the united front that we present on these individual issues. The power resides with us, the parents. Sophia is not a wedge between Kevin and I, but a shared joy. Sophia feels secure in knowing that there are rules consistently enforced.
So the next time Sophia pulls out the divide and conquer strategy and tells me that daddy gives her lots and lots of juice (or ice cream, or lollypops) with the very high hope that I will “follow suit,” the knowing grin will be directed at her, not Kevin. And I’ll probably say something like, “Daddy and I talked about this and we agree….”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)