Tag: Parenting

The absurdity of toddlers

Toddlerhood is defined by Having Opinions. Our youngest (a.k.a. “Hurricane”) is current smack dab in the middle of Toddlerhood, and so has some Very Definite Opinions, not just on food, but on life in general.  We currently believe:

  • We Can Do It All By Ourselves
  • Animal Mechanicals is Very Silly
  • We are Afraid of the Bathtub
  • Daddy is Very Silly
  • Mommy is the best source of all snacks, and therefore her location must be known at all times
  • NO LET ME DO IT
  • We Can’t Like Grilled Cheese Sandwiches
  • Honeynut Cheerios is the Best Cheerios
  • LET. ME. DO. IT.

If you have not had the mindmeltingness joy of a toddler in your life, imagine your new housemate is a miniature, incontinent Saddam Hussein, complete with lots of shouting, garish outfits, and absurd demands. Here you are, trying desperately to retain what little sanity you might have remaining from having reared them this far, and then they enter The Phase.

It’s as if there was a coup in Nowherezistan and you are now facing a determined terrorist opposition.

Like the United Nations, you meet feverishly with the rest of the security council. There are a lot of speeches made. The new regime is denounced. First, you try to reason with the new dictator and are stonewalled.

Put on your shoes so your feet don’t get cold.

No I caaaaan’t find my shoes.

Carrots are employed.

If you put on your shoes, we can go to Starbucks and you can have some popcorn.

No I want to stay in my jammies!

Sanctions are threatened.

If you don’t hold still and let me put on your shoes, you won’t get popcorn!

NoooooooooOOOOOOOOOO

Finally, the conflicted is escalated.

*Grabs half dressed, screaming child and carries child out of the house*

*screams, cries, kicks, goes stiff as a board to avoid getting strapped into a car seat*

Eventually you win the battle, if only because you’re bigger and stronger and have figured out where on the hips to press to fold a child in half without doing any internal damage, but you are fighting never-ending war of attrition.

I have chemical warfare going on over here. In my pants. Where's your bright red line now?
I have chemical warfare going on over here. In my pants. Where’s your bright red line now?

Without doubt, though, the most frustrating Toddlerisms are food related.

Our children don’t eat so much as graze continuously.

I have been told this is better for them for a variety of reasons –smaller stomachs, faster metabolisms– but for me, it means I can never get the kitchen cleaned up and raisins are everywhere.

Open the bread cabinet, see ... rat droppings? No, just the game "Hide the Raisins"
Open the bread cabinet, see … rat droppings? No, just the game “Hide the Raisins”

And then there’s just the sheer randomness of it all:

  • Cereal, but only Honeynut Cheerios, and only if the milk and cereal are presented in separate containers and he is allowed to pour the former into the latter BY HIMSELF
  • Grilled cheese sandwiches, but only from Panera
  • Chicken nuggets, if presented in pleasing shapes, like dinosaurs
  • Peanut butter and jelly, but must be cut into halves diagonally so as to form triangles, but don’t you dare cut them into quarters or I WILL SHANK YOU

I get it, I have to feed my children, no need to call social services. Also, I have an amazing and wonderful wife, so the kids will always have box of wine three square meals.

We start’em young in the Nostrikethat household

I have been through this four times now, and in a way it does get easier, if only because the bar was set to “survival” a long time ago.

There are perks, though.

No seriously, it's exhausting.
This is moderately worth it.

Ignore parenting is the best parenting

Here at No Strike That we believe that children should neither be seen nor heard, because we’ve got a box of wine that isn’t going to drink itself.

Without question, the best place for children is grandma’s house boarding school. Unfortunately, although I am very well endowed in many places (ahem, I drive a Mini Cooper), I come up a little short where it really matters– in the wallet. Since blogging isn’t paying much these days I have to settle for telling them to bugger off go away.

Sure he LOOKS harmless enough... but the dog knows what's up. He's a 36 inch Draco Malfoy in the making.
Sure he LOOKS harmless enough… but he’s actually 36 inches of Satan’s Spawn in the making. Check out the dog– she knows what’s up.

Too much of a good thing

Some time in between Roosevelt and Reagan (I can’t place precisely when it happened) parents decided it was important that they spend Quality Time with their kids. Lead their children in play. Mold their minds. Get involved!

This turned out to be a horrible idea.

50s Dads

Article after article makes the case that over-involvement in the lives of our children deeply and profoundly injures them up for a very long time. My completely unscientific theory that validates my own awesomeness is that we confused us with them.

Us vs. Them

Ever since the Rhesus Monkey Experiments, as a culture we have been trying to be the cuddly monkey all the time. We have succeeded beyond our wildest imaginings, and in doing so a generation of parents have completely gimped a generation of children.

I am personally ecstatic, because while my kids are handicapped by my unfortunate DNA I can raise some lean mean machines who will eat lesser children for breakfast as they hunt each other down Hunger Games-style for minimum wage McJobs.

I don’t think the kids from District 1 had their parents write their Hunger Games application essay, do you?

They’ve gotten to be this way because I’ve done my best to ignore them. On purpose.

As adults, we have figured out most of the necessary elements of life. For example, I am a master at:

  1. Transporting food into my mouth with over 99% accuracy (assuming alcohol isn’t involved)
  2. Sitting in a chair without falling out of it (assuming alcohol isn’t involved)
  3. Not pooping myself (assuming alcohol isn’t involved)

You know who’s not good at these things? My kids. The oldest, who’s 11, still occasionally, and for no apparent reason, falls out of his chair. I thought it might be an inner ear thing at first, but no… he’s just 11. According to his teachers, this is quite common for kids his age.

WHAT.

THE.

ACTUAL.

MRRRGL.

It makes no sense to me. Even though I was (at least on paper) a child at some point the “Why” of so much of what my kids do escapes me. I need peace, quiet, and my box of wine. My kids need to be loud, rowdy, and strapped in to their chairs at dinner because I SWEAR ON THE HOLY BIBLE IF YOU TOUCH YOUR SISTER ONE MORE TIME YOU’RE EATING BY YOURSELF IN YOUR ROOM. Ahem.

The best God is an absent God

Consider this scenario. It’s Monday, you’re late for an important appointment. You’re stuck in traffic and you mutter a prayer. A screenplay breaks out.

“Please, oh Lord, let me make it on time, because rescheduling this one will be a real bear.”

Suddenly, the Lord Almighty is in the passenger seat.

OF COURSE, MY CHILD. LET ME PART THE TRAFFIC.

“My God is an Awesome God!”

You make it to your appointment on time, and then you come back and the Lord Almighty is still sitting in the car.

“Hey God, what are we going to do this afternoon?”

WHATEVER YOU WANT.

“Yay! Let’s eat fried chicken and get really fat!”

SOUNDS GOOD TO ME.

6 months later…

[You’re 50 pounds overweight with Type 2 diabetes and God is still here.]

“Hey God, this has been fun and all… but when are you going to leave?”

WHEN YOU ARE LEADING A HAPPY AND PRODUCTIVE LIFE, OF COURSE.

“Oh… thanks God. I guess. Can I have some more fried chicken?”

OF COURSE, MY CHILD.

10 years later…

[Scene: Therapist’s office. There is a sea-foam green couch, which you and Him are sitting upon. The Therapist is sitting in a worn brown swivel chair. The rhododendron needs watering.]

Therapist: “This is a safe place. We can all feel free to express ourselves here. Why don’t You go first, O Lord?”

ALL I EVER WANTED WAS FOR MY CHILD TO BE HAPPY. NOT SIN. LIVE FOREVER. IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?

You: *weeps silently*

[fade to black]

The key to a successful human existence is that we have to believe we have choices. Free will. Deny our children the opportunity to make meaningful choices and all that we leave them is meaningless choices.

Nikes or Sketchers?

Applebees or Red Robin?

For so much of our children’s lives, we are their God. We control when they rise, when they sleep. What they eat, what they wear. I can fix anything and my wife’s kiss can heal all injuries, at least according to all of my kids at a young age. The temptation to never stop, though, can be overpowering. The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.

We never allow free will.

The truth, the real Truth, is that freedom is horrible, because when you are truly free you are truly responsible.

We can’t blame anyone else for our miserable lives, because it’s our miserable life.

Yet at the same time, when we triumph, it’s ours. When we master ourselves, it is ours. When we are redeemed, it’s because we had the strength all along.

Happiness is autonomy. While we all want a nice soft mommy monkey to cuddle, we still all want to be able to go off into the world and screw up as we see fit. So when you see me at the playground, and I’m looking at my phone, feel free to raise an eyebrow, but don’t help my kid on the jungle gym. I’m mostly ignoring him mostly on purpose.

Deprive your children of autonomy and you deprive them of happiness.

It’s really that simple.

Shout out to my visitors from cameforthebargains.com! Who I understand are a lot like the mafia, but with sippy cups. And vodka.