children – BATSHIT PARENTING

Sleep consultants are taking advantage of us

I had the misfortune of birthing not one, but two babies who just could not slumber for longer than two hours at a time. It almost killed me.

Until you yourself go through the throes of sleep deprivation it’s impossible to understand the sheer torture, desperation, and panic it instills. You get to the point where you actually fear falling asleep, because you know you’ll only be woken up again and the horror will begin all over again.

I tried a lot of things to make it better. I read a lot of books, surfed the internet for help, despaired to my GP. But I’ll tell you what I didn’t do: hire a sleep consultant.

Firstly, I didn’t have hundreds of dollars to blow on an initial consultation, let alone thousands of dollars for a full “sleep training package”. I find it astonishing (and, frankly, gross) that there are folks out there legitimately charging hundreds of dollars an hour to tell you what I’m about to tell you now. Secondly, I think the whole “sleep training” industry is a money-grab taking advantage of sleep-starved parents so desperate for relief that they’d do anything just to get some shut-eye.

You want to know how to sleep train? Here it is: You put the kid in the crib, say goodnight—and that’s it. You wait. They cry. You cry. And it is brutal. Oh sure, there are plenty of different “approaches”, with their own cute little acronyms (CIO, PIPD, etc). But listen: it’s all the same shit wrapped up in a different bow.

You can sit in the room while they scream until they (or you) feel like puking. You can leave the room and pop in and out at regular intervals while they scream until they (or you) feel like puking. You can slowly creep out of the room, bit by bit, over the period of week. You can just leave and not come back at all until they stop (or puke).

That’s what worked best with my first kid, who screamed for 45 minutes the first night, 20 minutes the second night, 5 minutes the third night, and started sleeping through the night after the third.

Or, if they’re still screaming three hours into it, you do what I did with my second: you give up. You take them into your bed, lie down with them, let them use you as a human soother, and adapt to sleeping with one boob in a tiny person’s mouth.

What you don’t do? Pay an unprofessional, unaccredited, unlicensed person to tell you to essentially ignore the kid until they nod off.

Sleep trainers do not have a degree in sleep. They’re not neurologists. They’re not psychologists. They’re not counsellors. They’re not medical professionals. They don’t need a license to call themselves “sleep trainers”. They don’t even have to take a course (although some private institutes will sell them).

But they WILL charge you the kind of fees that make you think they do.

The widening gulf between parental intentions and parental reality

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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.

An honest Mother’s Day wish list

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According to the recent slew of online ads in my timeline laying claim to maternal celebration via everything from online groceries to waterproof shoes, Mother’s Day is looming. Not gonna lie, I can definitely get on board with the whole “show mom how much you love her” sentiment. But, as Amy Schumer so brilliantly captured in this SNL clip, mostly it’s a day of high expectations that are left unmet by poor execution, spousal anxiety, and additional emotional labour.

Forget waking me up with half-wilted flowers, reluctantly scribbled cards, lukewarm coffee, and brittle toast. If you really want to make my day, here’s a list of things that I would gladly accept instead:

Don’t ask me for a single thing all day. Not a damn thing. Don’t even wait for me to say “Ask Daddy,” which will only make me feel guilty. Just—pretend I’m in a coma or something.
Speaking of comas: Let me sleep in, then let me have a nap, then let me go to bed early. Let me be in a virtual coma for most of the day. Oh, and definitely don’t ask me why I’m so tired. I’m a mom. Moms are tired people.
Relieve me of the need to plan or make decisions around meals, screen time, dog walking, bedtime, etc. There is far too much real estate in my brain taken up by monitoring how long it’s been since the kids ate, what they’re going to eat, how long they’ve been on screens, whether the dog has been fed and if he’s about to shit on the floor, who needs a bath, when the sheets were last washed, who has clean underwear, do we need any school snacks, if teeth are brushed… and on and on. My brain is like the mental equivalent of a hoarder’s den.
Please don’t talk to me if I’m doing something that requires my focus. I want to read my books, surf the internet, watch Netflix, and not be interrupted in any way. Despite all outward appearances, I am not that into Star Wars, I don’t give a shit about Minecraft, and I definitely don’t want to engage in any discussions about what makes a good Among Us imposter. Especially if I’m reading the latest hot goss about Prince Harry and Meghan Markle….
Do some chores without telling me you’re doing some chores. Unload the dishwasher, do a load of laundry (including folding and putting clothes away), mop the floor, vacuum, wipe the kitchen counters—AND THEN DON’T SAY A FRIGGIN’ WORD ABOUT IT. I’m not the only one who lives here. No one notices every time I put the dishes away, let alone gives me praise when I do. And guess what? I HATE DOING IT. But I do it, and it sucks. Every. Single. Time.
Let me drink as much rosé as I want to, and then let me fall asleep on the couch, and then just cover me with a blanket and leave me alone.
Don’t jump or climb on me. Not on my back, not on my lap when I’m trying to knit my Diana black sheep sweater, not on my body when I’m lying on the couch after drinking the aforementioned rosé. No one should have to live in fear of being tackled unawares by boy bodies every 10 minutes.
Lastly, let me kiss and hug you as much as I want to because I love you like crazy and you’re growing up way too fast even though you still smell like my little babies. I’m the only mom you’ve got, so let’s make the most of it.

Not yelling at my kids

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“A 2014 study in The Journal of Child Development demonstrated that yelling produces results similar to physical punishment in children: increased levels of anxiety, stress and depression along with an increase in behavioral problems.”
—Stephen Marche, NY Times, Sept. 5, 2018

A few months ago, my Facebook feed was suddenly inundated with ads for programs that would teach me to stop yelling at my children (and yet Facebook swears it doesn’t spy through your phone? Bullshit!).

So I thought I’d channel my New Yorker Shouts & Murmurs voice and write about what life could be like as a serene, never shouty, parent.

MONDAY
This morning, I told my kids to put on their shoes. When they failed to react, I lovingly suggested that they put on their shoes. Then, I affectionately proposed that they put on their shoes. They blinked blankly. I turned to the wall and banged my forehead into it. Over and over over. “Shoes. Shoes. Shoes.” I droned, keeping my voice slightly above a whisper. We were 30 minutes late for school.

TUESDAY
Today, as my children traded punches over the last of the black-bean stevia-sweetened brownies I had set aside for the PTA bake sale, I did not yell. I gazed lovingly at them and began singing “You are my sunshine” at the metronome speed of 198 to the quarter. The pitter-patter of the blows they rained down upon one another provided a steady rhythmic pulse for my strangled crooning. We sat in the ER for eight hours waiting for stitches. I wept, but silently.

WEDNESDAY
At 2am this morning, my youngest child awoke and, ever so sweetly, climbed into our bed. He nuzzled the crook of my neck. I engulfed him in a motherly embrace, and he peed on my legs. He leapt up, giggling, and sauntered to the comfort of his own bed. The warm urine clung to my body and turned cold. I counted to ten and bit off the inside of my cheeks.

THURSDAY
After placing a gluten-free, vegan lasagna for dinner this evening, I walked out of the kitchen and discovered my little cherubs had drawn penises across the living-room wall. In Sharpie. I opened my mouth in a soundless scream and collapsed, wordlessly, to the ground. I drank in their giddy laughter and beamed at them, lovingly, as I dug my fingernails into the flesh of my bosom. The lasagna burned. We ate McDonald’s and dined in silence.

FRIDAY
After school pick-up, I opened the door to my son’s room to investigate the crashing noises emanating from within. He was using his violin for batting practice. I stifled the urge to scream and, instead, took up the lotus position and searched for my inner sanctuary. As I began my incantation (“SERENITY NOW”), the instrument slipped from his grasp and came sailing through the air toward my temple. I may have moaned slightly as I slipped into unconsciousness, but I’m told I didn’t make a sound until the paramedics revived me. Progress.