When I was a kid...

Let me start by saying that when I decided on the title of this blog post I felt that, while appropriate for the content, it seemed strange to me.  Most days, most hours really, I still kind of feel like a "kid."  I still really enjoy trampolines, roller coasters, candy bars, Disney Pixar movies (really, though, who doesn't).  I think it's SUPER funny when people fall, I ABSOLUTELY hate getting up with an alarm and I still have a favorite color.  But I'm gonna call it like I see it and say for all intents and purposes I'm grown.  I vote, pay bills, work, raise a kid, yada yada.

In the process of raising that kid I've noticed an increasing frequency of the words "when I was a kid" flying out of my mouth.  You know the script: When I was a kid we ate whatever mama cooked, When I was a kid we didn't have an xBox, we had our imagination, When I was a kid people didn't shoot schools up.  I've heard that prefix from every parent I've ever spent more than 30 minutes with.  I'm sure you can think of a few your parents used against you, maybe a few you've used against your own kids.

A few nights ago for dinner I cooked baked chicken with fresh garlic, sea salt and basil.  Yes, it does sound delicious.  Peyton (that's the boyfriend's son) didn't want to eat his chicken.  He's eight.  I'm 31 and I prefer Chicken McNuggets so I can't really blame the kid.  Jonas (the boyfriend) told him "Eat your chicken, Peyton, its good for you."  Sidebar: don't ever ever ever try to persuade any human under the age of 24 to do anything because it's 'good for you'.  You may as well tell them it's battery acid and will disintegrate their insides.   Peyton was still reluctant to eat the battery acid chicken so Jonas followed up his argument with "When I was a kid we had to eat everything on our plate."  To which I promptly responded with an exaggerated eye roll.  Jonas asked, "you didn't have to eat all your food?"  Umm, no, my parents love me.  Obvi.  Think about it; did the kid choose his meal?  His portions?  No.  Did he ask for baked chicken?  Nope.  Should he be gracious and accept the blessing to the nourishment of his body?  Absolutely!  Does he have to like it?  Hell no.  And, for the record, not all the things from when you were a kid are relevant to our children.  

I'm not taking a stand against eating all your food, that isn't the point I'm trying to make.  What I'm saying is that using your childhood experiences to make well-rounded, sound judgments in parenting is a fantastic idea.  Lording the rules and punishments that were inflicted upon you as a child over your kid as a tool to diminish, discredit or demean their choices or desires is shitty.  And I'm just as guilty.  Stay with me here: In my personal experience the majority of the time when my dad began a sentence with 'when I was a kid' I didn't hang on the edge of my seat in eager anticipation of the sage wisdom he was about to lovingly bestow upon me.  No, I rolled my eyes in utter dismay at having to suffer through another example of his presumed suck-ass childhood.  If he were to collectively tell all his "when I was a kid" stories you would be strongly inclined to call child protective services to have his parents retro-actively charged for abuse, neglect, wanton endangerment and schizophrenia.  But if you ask my dad "how was your childhood?" he would respond with a sincere "It was great."  Now tell that to a ten year old who wants to stay up 30 minutes past bedtime but can't because her dad never could.  What?

And who's to say that the rules you were made to follow or the punishments you received were the most appropriate for you, or are the most appropriate for your child?  Let's reverse the role a bit; when I was a kid (see what I did there) I played in the street, with no adult supervision, for hours until it was too dark to see the dodge ball.  One neighborhood kid was in charge of yelling 'Car!' and NO ONE was in charge of reporting stranger danger when people walked by.  I was about nine.  If my kid asked to do that now I would lose my shit and lock her in her room for 15 years.  She could be kidnapped, killed, raped, sold for meth, given meth, talked into becoming a politician, fall onto a dirty needle.  The possibilities of impending doom are endless.  What was perfectly acceptable for me when I was a kid is unthinkable for my kid now.  When I was a kid I wasn't allowed to have my elbows on the dinner table.  Why?  My forearm is ok but my elbow is unacceptable?  Is this real life?  Are we having tea with the queen? Will someone faint at the sight of my boney elbow while they eat?  It's a little ashy, but not that bad.  

Now people have taken to social media to lord those rules and punishments over the younger generation.  And you sound like a grumpy old person who can't figure out all this new fangled techno babble.  These memes brag about being spanked like it's the sole reason you aren't a raging alcoholic serial killer who wears human heads as hats.  There's an underlying judgement against a generation of children that YOUR GENERATION RAISED!  Think about that while you enjoy the next photo.

MmmmHmmm.  So, riddle-me-this Batman; who bought the 10 year old the laptop, iPod and Blackberry? (which BTW no one owns a Blackberry...no one)  That's like parking your own car, then being angry at how your car is parked!  I know it's a generalization; so are all the jabs at the "kids these days."  Sidebar: One of my favorite quotes from a meme (sorry I couldn't find it!) said "Generation X invented the internet; show some respect Generation Y".  Is this real life?  That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. Like ever.  

Will people stop saying "when I was a kid.." as a result of this blog?  Nope.  And that's ok, it's a time honored tradition of frustrated parents to try and rationalize with their mini-me's to get them to calm the fuck down about whatever injustice they feel they've suffered.  But, I would like to try and use this sentence enhancer in a slightly different way:

• When I was a kid my dad worked constantly, so I try very hard to be present with my child at dinner time.  Because I believe we're building memories she will one day cherish.
• When I was a kid I never saw my mom cry.  Because of this I felt shamed by my own grief.  I don't want my daughter to fight that demon, so I will show her my tears, in an appropriate way, to help her grieve freely and grow emotionally.
• When I was a kid I watched my parents playfully express affection with laughter and kisses and teasing.  I now find that same affection in my relationship and it makes me grateful that our kids see it too.
• When I was a kid my sister Jessie never let me wallow in self-pity, and now that she's in a health battle, I know how to pull her up just like she used to pull me up.
• When I was a kid my mother openly accepted every single friend I ever brought home, regardless of ethnicity, religion, sexual orientation or financial status.  She gave freely to panhandlers, tipped generously, smiled at everyone.  I grew up to be that kind of woman, and my daughter will do the same.
• When I was a kid my biological dad disappeared.  My step-dad didn't blink an eye, he just stayed right where he was; where he still is today.
• When I was a kid I was told constantly that I had immeasurable potential and that I would be loved unconditionally.  I am realizing my potential and loved relentlessly by my parents every day.
• When I was a kid we laughed every single day.

Because when I was a kid, life was amazing.

Bathroom Pie

I'm sure your mind is conjuring a number of pretty gross images that could depict "bathroom pie".  Poop, mostly, I'm sure.  But, no, I'm not talking about feces here people, pay attention.  I'm going to tell you a ghastly tale of love, loss, danger, learning to overcome adversity, and one slice of pumpkin pastry.

Val (that's my kid) and I were getting ready one morning.  She and I in the morning are something like those people in the movies who suddenly find themselves on the cusp of an apocalyptic state of emergency.  We both lazily ignore our alarms in favor of our '5 more minutes' mistake until the last possible second we can sleep before I lose my job and a truancy officer knows us by name.  When we finally pull ourselves from our beds, primal panic takes over our bodies and we become, in a sense, lunatics.  We race past each other in the hall, get your shoes! where's my backpack?! did you brush your hair or teeth or either? get in the car Val! get in the car Val! get in the car for cryin' out loud Val!  Classy.

This particular morning was no exception.  I was mid where-the-hell-are-my-keys when her small voice broke all four of my current trains of thought.

"Can I have this pie?"

I looked up to find her, not dressed (of course), hair a mess (of course), holding up a piece of pumpkin pie on a tea saucer (of cou - wait, what?).

"Is that...pie?"  We both looked at it, me in shear wonder that pumpkin pie would materialize in my child's hand, her with shear delight that there was pumpkin pie to be had.

"Yeah, I think it's pumpkin.  Can I have it?"
"I, I mean, I guess.  Where did you get it?"

"The bathroom."

Now we stared at each other, me in utter confusion that she would find pie in our bathroom, she in utter confusion that I wasn't pouring a glass of milk for her to enjoy with her Bathroom Pie.  I don't know, really, what was going through my head.  Why was pie in the damn bathroom?  Where did it come from?  Who put it there and why didn't they eat it?  Why the hell did I tell her she could eat it before these questions were answered?

To her dismay I took the pie from her to examine it.  It was relatively fresh, no sign of the weird pie dew that forms on the top when left out, it was room temperature, it smelled delicious.

"Can I eat it now?"

What was I supposed to do?  I saw the MythBusters episode, I know what happens when you flush with the lid up.  How could I let my precious 8 year old daughter consume Bathroom Pie that was possibly bedazzled with microscopic shit bits? 

"Sorry, kid."

She looked down at her shoes, I knew she was disappointed.  I tried to console her.  "Tell ya what, kid, go brush your hair, and if you happen to find, like, a chicken leg or something in there, it's all yours."

She brightened up a bit.  "You promise?"  
Sigh.
"Cross my heart."

That evening I had all but forgotten about the shit bits.  Jonas came in, happy as always, so I started my evening ritual of telling him all the crap about work that he jovially ignores.  I was following him through the house recounting the day's happenings until he stepped into the bathroom.  He pulled back the shower curtain, looked around the tub, beside the toilet, behind the door.

"What are you lookin' for, babe?"

He then turns to me, in all seriousness, and says,

"You seen my pie?"

I felt my stomach turn.  My upper lip started to curl and my eyebrows shot up to my hairline like those 7th grade girls who think it makes them look tough but really they look like they just smelled a dirty diaper.  The Bathroom Pie was his pie?  My sexy, muscular, college-educated, Greek god-like man eats Bathroom Pie?  UGH!  The man who I whole-heartily believe I was designed specifically to complete eats Bathroom Pie?  In the midst of my major life alteration he brushes passed me in the hall and heads toward the front of the house.  I heard his voice coming from the living room.

"Val, you seen my pie?"
"Yep, but Mama wouldn't let me eat it."
"Then where is it?"
My child, my sweet little baby, puts on some hateful, accusatory tone I had never heard come from her tiny pea head and tells him, "I don't know, she probably ate it just so we couldn't."

What?!?!  I took off down the hallway, through the kitchen, into the laundry room. I scooped up the trash can and took into the living room.  Holding it up at both of them I yelled "Look!  Bathroom Pie!  Right there!  Of course I didn't eat it, I'm not a whackadoo that eats Bathroom Pie for cryin' out loud! It's disGUSting!" I turned my glare on Jonas, "and the thought of you eating ANYTHING in the bathroom makes my stomach turn!  Who does that?!  Who takes food from the kitchen, into the bathroom, where the nastiest possible things happen, and consumes it like you're at Ruth's Chris and its completely normal?!  Who does that?!"  Back to Val, "and YOU, little girl, had better not EVER go behind MY back saying that I did ANYthing that I didn't, you hear me?  I don't care if you ARE just talking to Jonas that's SHADY and I'm not having it!"  I carried the can back to the laundry room, cussing under my breath.  Tell me I ate the damn pie, ya'll was trying to eat the damn pie I'm trying to save ya'll from salmonella shit bits.  Ingrates.  

It wasn't until much later that evening that I addressed the Bathroom Pie again to Jonas.  I explained that it was the NASTIEST thing I could imagine; eating in the bathroom.  And the thought that either of our kids could have easily consumed it and become violently ill really pissed me off.  He explained that he likes to eat while in the bath.  He sits in the tub and soaks his knee and eats.  Ugh.  I tried to empathize, but couldn't get passed the reactive disgust.  "I don't want to live in a house with food in the bathroom.  I don't want my daughter to see that I think its wrong but that you think its ok and then she's left confused and forced to make a decision that could leave her feeling like she's having to choose between us."

And that's it.  That's my problem.  My anger didn't show it's face until I felt like the kid was pitted against me.  And she said what she said because she felt like I was pitted against her and Jonas.  "She probably ate it just so we couldn't."  I was terrified that this was a sign of what was to come.  Our kids having to choose sides because Jonas and I were of opposing opinions or actions.  It made me sad.  It made me angry.  

Jonas and I talked about this at length.  For days, really.  We would get heated and hurtful and back away to cool down.  We (sadly) threw some your-kid-my-kid grenades.  He took a few I'm-a-better-parent-than-you bullets.  I suffered a few this-is-why-your-relationships-implode machine gun fire.  But we didn't stop talking about it until we both agreed that our best strategy as co-creators of our blended family is to show a united front.  If that means telling either kid "let me talk to your mom/dad first" then that's what we do.  If that means going into another room to throw emotional grenades until a common ground is identified, then so be it.  No good-cop-bad-cop, no mom-said-no-so-I'll-just-ask-Jonas.  And, for the love of sanitation, no more Bathroom Pie.