My Dark Truths About Parenting and Marriage

IMG_3681After reading Kristen Oganowski’s piece 10 Dark Parenting Truths We Never Talk About, I was inspired to write about my own dark truths. The stuff that I think and then push down by busying myself with the laundry or a glass of wine. I appreciate the honesty of her piece because so much of what a I read on parenting involves how to make yourself better (because you are inadequate) or is sarcastic. I’m not judging either of those responses, but I wanted to sit with my dissatisfaction. Let it be. 

Once written, my truths, this radical honesty, still left me feeling unsettled. “God, I thought. “I’m just as horrible and complain-y as my children.” But a thought or a feeling is just that: a thought or a feeling. I can observe it, acknowledge it, and move on. My “Remember” refrain is way of moving on.

I don’t like to play with my daughter.

When she asks if she can give me Minecraft lessons or if I’ll play Legos with her which involves building and playacting different scenarios, I cringe. Then I feel guilty. My daughter is nine and in the next few years, I expect that she’ll begin to pull away from me. Shouldn’t I embrace this time when she wants to spend time with me? My mom’s schizophrenia prevented me from having a close relationship with her, so I feel like I should be more dedicated to cultivating my relationship with my daughter.

Remember: I do enjoy being with her: biking, letting her bounce her invention ideas off of me, lazing in bed and talking, reading Harry Potter to her. We’re different people who enjoy different things.

I let my husband be the heavy.

Last night the kids were jacked up on ice cream and giddy from having spent the day at a friend’s house. They were giggling and happy and it was after 9 p.m. “Can you be in charge, please?” I asked Rodney. “They listen to you.” Other times, I’ve found myself saying the cliched words, “do you want me to tell Daddy?” because I know they will be scared into doing whatever I’ve asked them to do. I don’t like resorting to keeping the kids in-line through Daddy’s Reign of Terror, but I don’t always have the energy or the patience to do things the “positive discipline” way.

Remember: There are lots of times you do find the positive, firm way to get the kids to do what you want. Using the “When you ___, you can” construction works wonders. E.g., “When you put your shoes on, then you can play for five minutes on my iPhone.”

I consider my husband a third child (sometimes).

Rodney gets jealous or upset when I put the kids’ needs or wants ahead of his own. He’ll snap “I guess that I don’t get to talk!” when he’s interrupted. And when the kids are finally engaged in their own activities, he’ll demand attention by grabbing my various parts. “Why can’t you just talk to me!” I silently scream in my head. “Why all this groping like some teenager!” 

Remember: Channeling my therapist, I think she’d say that I need to schedule more regular dates with Rodney so we feel more connected. That reaction also speaks to my need for some alone and recharge time.

I’m in it for the money and benefits (for now).

Jasper’s preschool for the 2016-2017 year will be $410/week, which is $19,680. When confronted with the possibility of switching to a job that’s more meaningful and creatively challenging, I find myself holding back because I need my job which isn’t too demanding and pays well.

Remember: This doesn’t mean that I can’t change in a year, find a job that gives me the pay and flexibility that I deserve. I can also find ways to inject creativity and challenge into my life, but I’m not at the right time of my life to take those risks.

I’ve called my kids names

For once, we were doing something that I wanted to do—visiting a quaint town with an independent book shop, vintage furniture stores, and unique clothing places—and my kids were bitching about walking. Are we there, yet? I can’t walk anymore. Can I get something at the toy store? All these values I’ve tried to instill, and I have two whining children who can’t set aside their own wants for a day to do what I want. That’s when Jasper collapsed on the ground.

“I can’t walk anymore,” he cried.

“You both are being brats,” I hissed. “Brats!”

Remember: Everyone loses their shit. I told Rodney that I needed 10 minutes alone, and I was able to calm down a bit.

Family vacations are not really vacations.

For our summer vacation we spent a week in Williamsburg, Virginia. I love intellectual, culture things and eating great food and walking around. My kids prefer the pool, amusement parks, and plain pasta from chain Italian restaurants. Guess who had the better vacation?

Remember: Accept that I’m not going to experience the vacation I would want if I didn’t have kids. That’s why I’m taking a staycation this week. Home is not exotic, but I’ve been the boss of my own schedule.

Privacy, Please.

FullSizeRenderSometimes when I’ve lost the will to parent, I pretend that I have to poop.

“I need to go to the bathroom!” I’ll announce loudly grabbing a magazine and pounding upstairs to the bathroom my husband and I share.

Not 30 seconds into the New Yorker—which I read back to front, first reading the cartoons, next making a mental note of the articles I want to read but in all likelihood won’t read—I see shadows move beneath the door, like a shark lurking beneath the water’s surface.

“Mama, what are you doing?” my four-year-old son Jasper asks.

“Pooping!” I lie. Will he believe me? He leaves, then returns a moment later and parks himself in front of the door. Then I hear the familiar rattle and crash of Legos landing on the floor. Sigh.

One time when my need to use the bathroom was genuine, my daughter Zora slipped a note under the door.

“I miss you,” it said.

Of course, when they’re really in dire need of attention, the kids barge right in. My daughter did this last week and immediately regretted her actions.

“It smells in here,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

“Hmm, I wonder why?!” I replied sarcastically.

Kids aren’t the only ones who ignore the closed door. Once when my sister-in-law was visiting our family, my husband and I took the opportunity to sneak upstairs for a quickie. Five minutes into our tryst, my sister-in-law opened the door to ask something. “Hey!…Oh, my God!” she muttered, blue eyes widened, her jaw dropped, and she quickly slammed the door.

Five years after moving into our condo and after countless interruptions, we decided enough was enough and bought and installed three doorknobs with locks.

Not long afterward, we enjoyed a lazy Sunday afternoon at home. The kids sprawled on Zora’s bed engrossed in Minecraft videos, and my husband and I stretched on the couch reading. My husband removed the book How To Manage Your Strong-Willed Child out of my hands, placed his head in my lap, and grinned expectantly at me. I tried to deflect by asking him if he thought that Jasper was regular kid who thrived on routine, but I may as well have been speaking Tagalog to him. He placed his hand behind my head and pulled me down for a meaningful kiss. Deciding to go along for the ride, I let myself be led upstairs into our bedroom. We locked the door and undressed and jumped under the covers. The bright afternoon light fell across our bodies. As I traced my finger down his breastbone, I heard the familiar, “Mommy?!” Then the door rattled. Ha! Locked!

“Go away!” Rodney barked.

“Mommy? What are you doing?” Jasper asked.

“Snuggling with Daddy,” I yelled.

“Why?” he asked.

“Go away,” Rodney barked again.

A pair of small feet padded down the hall. Spell broken, I looked at my husband and rolled my eyes. At least we have privacy.