Spoil the Child?

I really dislike the term “spoiled child,” as if a little one has gone rancid and foul-smelling, or worse, is ruined for good and must be tossed out.  But I can’t think of anything much better:  Over-indulged? (Sounds as if she is swelling, glutted with attention.)  Self-centered? (Sounds too much like she has no awareness or concern for others, which just isn’t true.)  Egocentric? (Well, what child isn’t?)

But, I am aware that my constant being “on-call,” like a doctor who can be paged day or night, has created an expectation for me to be constantly on call.  My daughter expects, nay demands, instant and incessant attention.  For the past four years, I was complicit.  I agreed with the relatively new adage, “you can’t spoil a baby with attention.”  In fact, I believed this to be true of a toddler and a preschooler as well.  Stuff, perhaps, but love?  Can one ever have too much love?  I wanted to be there for her, attune and responsive, but now that I see Sophia as a more capable, independent human being, I want her to be a more capable, independent human being. 

And she wants me to play with her.  Every. Waking.  Moment. 

At dinner if Kevin and I have a brief exchange, Sophia asks, “How come no one is talking to me?”

And from the second I wake up in the morning, Sophia, who is perfectly capable of reading a book by herself, thrusts What Do People Do All Day? into my face and insists that I read four—no five—stories. 

Then, the day is peppered with demands, “Mommy be a witch.”  “Mommy, you have to color with me.”  “Mommy, read me just one more…just one more!” 

I want her to adopt an attitude of gratitude.  Where is her thankfulness?  Her appreciation?

And where is my moment to myself? 

Perhaps Sophie’s need to be constantly entertained is not unique to only children, but it is certainly fueled by Sophie’s only status.  There is no one to split her time with, her toys with.  So, even though we don’t actually give her much stuff, what she does have is all hers.    And time?   What’s mine is also all hers.

I have only first started to feel some resentment, annoyance, and perhaps fear around Sophie’s requests.  Resentment that she’s encroaching on my territory, edging out my life with hers.  Annoyance at the relentlessness of her demands, and the what-have-you-done-for-me-in-last-minute attitude.  And fear that it will only get worse. 

But, as with all behaviors one wishes to change, awareness is key.  I am conscious of my irritation.  Spoiled children are only spoiled by complicit parents.  There has to be a spoiler and a desire to spoil.  I want to stop.  Starting now. 

So I am initiating a campaign to bring about change, foster greater independence.  I call it, Go Play by Yourself.  I set her up with scissors, glue and old magazines and let her go to town.  I stick her in the living room with a pile of books while I’m cooking and insist that she read by herself.  I put her in her bedroom for rest hour and shut the door.  I can play with her only after.  After I get the laundry done.  After I finish sending this email for work.  After I clean up the bathroom. 

To my surprise, Sophie has been responding not with anger, nor resistance, nor even simple complicity, but excitement and even a little pride.  When I set out to wash the floor this weekend, I gave her a few copies of South Jersey Magazine, a glue stick, her scissors and some construction paper.  A half-hour later she emerged with cards for each of her friends.  She had made collages of images she thought they would like.  True, some had images of women bouncing in bikinis on beaches or real estate photos of mansions on the market, but they were sweet.  Thoughtful.  Gracious.

“Mommy, can you help me write some words to my friends?”  Now it was “after.”  I was ready.  Present and relaxed. 

“Sure kid.  What do you want to say?” 

“Margo, sweetheart, you are so lovely.”  I write down her words.

“Madeline Crazyhead.  I love you.”  I write this down too. 

And as I do, I think to myself, perhaps my fears are unfounded.  Maybe she is yet unspoiled.  There is no faulting her for wanting what she wants; there is only shaping it into a new form.  Helping her find satisfaction in other ways.  And gratitude at four is not expressed as “thank you.”  It comes in small unexpected acts of love. 

What's Good for the Grandchild Is Not Good for the Daughter

This post was inspired by Adena Halpern’s novel, 29, the April selection of the online book club, From Left to Write. I received a complementary copy of the book from the publisher, but was not otherwise compensated to write this piece. Find out how other writers were inspired by the book here.

My mother does not spoil my daughter, Sophia, as much as she would like to. I won’t let her. After dinner one night, she asks if she can give Sophia a second helping of ice cream. A disappointed look crosses her face as I shake my head no. I watch her mouth tighten, and I know she’s holding her tongue. Still, she tries to back me up, saying, “Sorry, Sophia, Mommy says ‘no.’” It isn’t until Sophia is out of ear shot that she asks, “Come on, Melissa. Is a little bit more going to kill her?”

In my lectury teacher voice I tell her, “No, of course not, Mom. But she had already had a cupcake in nursery school today and I want treats to be special, not something that is routinely doled out after each meal.” My mother sighs. She knows I’m right. And then I remind her, “Besides, when I was a kid you were adamant about limiting our sweets. Have you forgotten? Why is it different with Sophia?”

It’s true. We were never allowed to have sugar cereals and the cookie drawer was strictly off-limits. There was always stuff around (my father had an insatiable sweet tooth), and there were no locks on the cookie drawer, but I was a pretty rule-bound kid. I tended to obey the guidelines my parents set forth, indulging only when my younger sister goaded me on. Jenny would barge into my room on a Sunday morning, before our parents were awake. “You wanna take some of mom’s truffles and melt them on the radiator and smear them on bread to make chocolate sandwiches?” she’d ask, a gleam in her eye. “Uh, okay,” and we’d do it, though I knew there’d be hell to pay.

Also, I can’t remember my mother indulging in sweets when I was a child the way she does now. A half-gallon of Edy’s Flavor of the Month is lucky to last a night in her freezer. And if you’re sharing with her, your wrist better be limber and ready for battle. So, maybe it’s part of a broader loosening of her rules as she gets older.

Or maybe, this is the grandmother dynamic. Be the person you could not be as a parent. The person who says “yes” to everything. The person who elicits broad smiles instead of tantrums. The person who for whom my daughter only has positive associations: going to her nursery school, visiting museums, reading books, staying up late, eating ice cream. Maybe after all those hard years of trying to shape, and instill, and promote, and push back, there is great joy to be had in indulgence. In letting go.

It might be different if Sophia was with my mother on a daily basis, and Sophia had to comply with requests my mother makes. But I am usually there, waiting in the wings to be the heavy: Listen to your grandmother. Sit in your chair. Eat your broccoli. Brush your teeth. Put your pajamas on. I deal with the push back; I dole out the consequences. My mother did it for me, and now it’s her turn to relax.

I suppose I just have to wait my turn, when Sophia has a child of her own who I can lavish attention on, and then hand back for the tough stuff. In the meanwhile, I am earning my stripes. Laying down the law. Following through on what I say. Teaching Sophia self control, because it is not the treats in and of themselves that are so sweet, but the departure from restrictions. Appreciation and gratitude are born out of limits, not excess. If Sophia is going to be able to pass along this lesson to her daughter, she has to first learn it from me.

Grandma is my foil and my counterpart.