I have stuff to do today. Lots of stuff, actually. But that's true everyday, so sometimes I just have to pretend the list doesn't grow with every unencumbered breath I take and shanghai seven precious seconds of me time. Nine times out of ten, if I've managed to trick myself into taking a few minutes off, I'm going to spend that time reading. The good news is, I'm a fast reader. The bad news is, reading makes me want to write, and who has time for that? Apparently, this girl.
I worked hard yesterday, really I did. And I rewarded myself with David Sedaris's new book (http://www.indiebound.org/book/9780316154697) because I can read one paragraph (sometime two if I have the time) and still feel well read and inspired to write. You don't believe me? You don't think David Sedaris, or any author for that matter, could possibly be that good? WRONG. Allow me to demonstrate:
"Never would they [David's parents] have blindly defended me or even asked for my side of the story, as that would have put me on the same level as the adult. If a strange man accused you of doing something illegal, you did it. Or you might as well have done it. Or you were at least thinking about doing it. There was no negotiating, no "parenting" the way there is now. All these young mothers chauffeuring their volcanic three-year-olds through the grocery store. The child's name always sounds vaguely presidential, and he or she tends to act accordingly. "Mommy hears what you're saying about treats," the woman will say, "but right now she needs you to let go of her hair and put the chocolate-covered Life Savers back where they came from."
"No!" screams McKinley or Madison, Kennedy or Lincoln or beet-faced baby Reagan. Looking on, I always want to intervene. "Listen," I'd like to say, "I'm not a parent myself, but I think the best solution at this point is to slap that child across the face. It won't stop its crying, but at least now it'll be doing it for a good reason."
Are you not inspired? Are you not feeling the least bit uppity, realizing you know seven children named after presidents, but yours isn't one of them? And if yours is one of them, it's not your fault because you had no idea there was ever a president named Polk? Enjoy the feeling, friends. Sedaris's essays have a way of making even the worst person (or parent) feel a little better about him/herself.
That's why I spend my free time with my nose in a snarky book, rather than on Pinterest. Don't get me wrong. I have a Pinterest account. Where else would I get my "said no one ever" or "ain't nobody got time for that" fixes? But I can't even hover over the section dedicated to perfecting parenting without getting sweaty palms.
It's going to come as no shock to any of you that I'm not the perfect parent. [I am the parent (sometimes), but there really isn't any adjective I care to attach to that. Nothing that would stick.] What might surprise some of you, though, is that I don't want to be a perfect parent. I'm not actually inspired by the endless pins on parties to punishment to paisley pacifiers. Not because I don't respect the mothers who are inspired by them--not because I don't secretly envy those ladies--but because I wasn't mothered the Pinterest way. I was mothered the Sedaris way, like most people my age.
Sure, we're a little harder, a little edgier than our younger counterpins; but that's a good thing because life is full of sharp corners and steep drop offs. We've all been through shit, and we've made it out alive because we have the hides of dinosaurs. And we're proud of ourselves, because in many ways, we have ourselves to thank. And we can thank our parents for that.
Mother's Day is coming up, and Father's Day is right around the corner. Instead of sending the requisite flower arrangement or tie this year, maybe take a few minutes to reflect on what your parents didn't do for you, and how that shaped the person you are today. Maybe send them a card that looks like this:
It may seem strange, but speaking as a parent, I can tell you it is far easier to just do it all for your lousy kid. You know how to do it better, faster, and without all the attitude. It is a sacrifice to let your sweet baby fail. A sacrifice of your pride, of your happiness--of his or her happiness. But a sacrifice worth making. Because if my girl grows up knowing failure is a part of life, but in no way attached to her worth or my love, she'll grow up like me. And I like me.
I worked hard yesterday, really I did. And I rewarded myself with David Sedaris's new book (http://www.indiebound.org/book/9780316154697) because I can read one paragraph (sometime two if I have the time) and still feel well read and inspired to write. You don't believe me? You don't think David Sedaris, or any author for that matter, could possibly be that good? WRONG. Allow me to demonstrate:
"Never would they [David's parents] have blindly defended me or even asked for my side of the story, as that would have put me on the same level as the adult. If a strange man accused you of doing something illegal, you did it. Or you might as well have done it. Or you were at least thinking about doing it. There was no negotiating, no "parenting" the way there is now. All these young mothers chauffeuring their volcanic three-year-olds through the grocery store. The child's name always sounds vaguely presidential, and he or she tends to act accordingly. "Mommy hears what you're saying about treats," the woman will say, "but right now she needs you to let go of her hair and put the chocolate-covered Life Savers back where they came from."
"No!" screams McKinley or Madison, Kennedy or Lincoln or beet-faced baby Reagan. Looking on, I always want to intervene. "Listen," I'd like to say, "I'm not a parent myself, but I think the best solution at this point is to slap that child across the face. It won't stop its crying, but at least now it'll be doing it for a good reason."
Are you not inspired? Are you not feeling the least bit uppity, realizing you know seven children named after presidents, but yours isn't one of them? And if yours is one of them, it's not your fault because you had no idea there was ever a president named Polk? Enjoy the feeling, friends. Sedaris's essays have a way of making even the worst person (or parent) feel a little better about him/herself.
That's why I spend my free time with my nose in a snarky book, rather than on Pinterest. Don't get me wrong. I have a Pinterest account. Where else would I get my "said no one ever" or "ain't nobody got time for that" fixes? But I can't even hover over the section dedicated to perfecting parenting without getting sweaty palms.
It's going to come as no shock to any of you that I'm not the perfect parent. [I am the parent (sometimes), but there really isn't any adjective I care to attach to that. Nothing that would stick.] What might surprise some of you, though, is that I don't want to be a perfect parent. I'm not actually inspired by the endless pins on parties to punishment to paisley pacifiers. Not because I don't respect the mothers who are inspired by them--not because I don't secretly envy those ladies--but because I wasn't mothered the Pinterest way. I was mothered the Sedaris way, like most people my age.
Sure, we're a little harder, a little edgier than our younger counterpins; but that's a good thing because life is full of sharp corners and steep drop offs. We've all been through shit, and we've made it out alive because we have the hides of dinosaurs. And we're proud of ourselves, because in many ways, we have ourselves to thank. And we can thank our parents for that.
Mother's Day is coming up, and Father's Day is right around the corner. Instead of sending the requisite flower arrangement or tie this year, maybe take a few minutes to reflect on what your parents didn't do for you, and how that shaped the person you are today. Maybe send them a card that looks like this:
It may seem strange, but speaking as a parent, I can tell you it is far easier to just do it all for your lousy kid. You know how to do it better, faster, and without all the attitude. It is a sacrifice to let your sweet baby fail. A sacrifice of your pride, of your happiness--of his or her happiness. But a sacrifice worth making. Because if my girl grows up knowing failure is a part of life, but in no way attached to her worth or my love, she'll grow up like me. And I like me.
I love what you said, but sometimes I know I didn't do good for my children. They still turned out wonderfully in spite me. I feel good about that!
ReplyDeleteI love this blog post!
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