There are two parallel universes of parenting: the type of parent you plan to be—and the type of parent you end up being. One type is characterized by good intentions, idealism, bountiful, endless love and affection. The other, not so much.
As the global pandemic rages on and the kids hit the tween years, the gap between these two universes is stretching into an ever-widening chasm filled with regret, self-recrimination, and a shit-ton of guilt.
So, in the spirit of oversharing, here are some of the sliding door moments of my parenting life:
THE PLAN: Establish clear boundaries, and stay firm. No means no.
THE REALITY: Give in more often than not, as having to endure endless whining, tantrums and tears is often more than I care to take on. My momentary peace and serenity is apparently worth more to me than my kids’ moral and behavioural development.
THE PLAN: Only sugar-free snacks, whole-grain breakfast foods, and very limited (if any) juice on hand. Pop/soda doesn’t even enter the picture.
THE REALITY: In an effort to have kids actually consume their packed lunches, send them to school with those “fruit-juice gummies” (real fruit just comes straight back home again), yogurt drinks, and jam sandwiches. Bribe them to complete their homework with the occasional 7/11 Slurpee. Give quiet thanks for husband’s dental coverage plan.
THE PLAN: No screen time on school days, and no more than one hour on weekends.
THE REALITY: Kids take over my phone, iPad and laptop in order to both online with friends while simultaneously chatting on video and speakerphone. I hide in the kitchen drinking wine and pretending to make dinner.
THE PLAN: Have sit-down dinners together as a family every night, sharing heartfelt discussions about our day, and our hopes and dreams for the future.
THE REALITY: The almost-teen starts demanding food exactly 30 minutes before I’ve started preparing anything, so he fills up on cereal, milk, and the stash of cookies I thought I’d hidden from him. The younger one sees this, and declares that he is entitled to the same. I am tied up making dinner so they they stuff their faces alone. Husband gets home and announces he’s not hungry yet because he had a late lunch. Dinner goes uneaten and becomes a cold, neglected metaphor of dejection. I sneak off into the basement and fill my emotional void with the pint of ice cream I’d hidden earlier in the deep freeze. And… scene.
Listen, I know I’m falling short. But you can’t say that I don’t have good intentions, or that I don’t know better. I do.
I just don’t always achieve better.
BATSHIT PARENTING 