I remember when Vaughn was just a wee one and a friend of ours (the same friend who said pick your children's friends, The Analyst, emphasis on Anal) talking about the "Hallmark Parents" in a derisive tone, if you couldn't guess. He went on to talk about a book about parenting that was refreshing and validating because it wasn't about Hallmark parenting, and that it felt good to hear about another parent who had felt like tossing their newborn out the window during a particularly lustful sceamfest. At the time he was saying these things, in my foggy-progesterone-ridden-just-fell-in-love-breast-feeding state, I listened in horror as I gazed adoringly down upon my angel's glowing countenance.
I now completely understand what he meant by Hallmark Parents. I derive guilty pleasure when I read another parent writing in less than positive tones about their bouncing bundle of joy. Which brings me to a wonderful, and evidently popular, blog site: Dooce.com This woman is hilarious. I tire so listening to other moms and their seemingly endless patience and adoration of their children. It makes me wonder, "What the heck is wrong with me?" To further add to my guilt is all the time, energy (emotional and physical), money, pain, etc., that we went through to conceive our little Popsicle tot, only to have days when I'm actually thinking of listing him on Craigslist.
The majority of the time I feel I am the anti-Hallmark parent, which completely baffles me when for the first year of Vaughn's life I was utterly enamored with my son. Looking back on it, of course, it seemed so much easier. For one thing, he couldn't talk, so I never heard the words "Go Away!," when telling him he can't have yet another box juice or "Icky" when serving him his favorite food, which has now, inexplicably, become his UNfavorite food. Or deciding that he must be dressed in yellow from head to toe because this is his favorite color (after I have purchased an obscene amount of Gymboree-coordinated outfits, no yellow among them). When he was 6 months, he never threw a tantrum in Costco because he didn't get his OWN receipt. (This new fascination with receipts is a complete mystery to me.) I never winced, bracing myself for the inevitable "NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" when I forget and accidentally open the front door, instead of letting His Majesty do it. Everything was blissfully predictable. Now I never know who I'll be speaking to: Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde.
I think the other thing that makes this job particularly difficult is the fact that it's forever changing. This is the one job that I have had in my life that I am incapable of mastering and excelling at. I remember the thing I always hated about a new job was the training. It was a constant struggle smashing in all the new polices and procedures into my brain. Then finally I got beyond the training, and things started to settle and pretty soon I didn't even have to think about it and I would "exceed expectations." Not so with this parenting job. Just when I think I've got it down and I've figured out how to handle one phase, it ends and the next one comes along. I keep approaching parenting with this thought that eventually I'll get through the training phase and things will get easier and I'll finally master these parenting skills. I'm now starting to resolve myself to the fact that it's never going to happen, and I find that extremely frustrating. I don't deal well with failure, and I feel like I'm failing dismally at this job. Now I have to bask in those few moments when I can think, "Wow, that was very smart of you. Well done. You actually were a good parent just now."
I think I must be some kind of weird evolutionary anomaly. I mean, aren't we supposed to be better parents than our parents? But my mom was a loving, patient, caring mother. That I remember anyway. I mean there was the bipolar part, but hey, she had three kids. I'm on antidepressants already and I only have one child. Those manic phases are some of my fondest memories, at least before she started becoming psychotic. That part wasn't as much fun. However, having a mother that thinks she has hypersonic hearing is entertaining.
*sigh*
Good times, good times.
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