Momming

Head On

When my babies were just a year old I’d catch them oogling at the stairway.

I get it: Tall and mighty, leading somewhere unknown that they just had to escape to, or sloping downward toward someplace they needed to explore or experience. I knew right-away when their curiosity was about to peak and get the better of them (and my anxiety).

As soon as I caught their curiosity, I did what I knew I had to do: I taught them how to climb up and down the stairs. Like, immediately. 

“Toe-toe-knee-knee, toe-toe-knee-knee,” I’d chant as we scaled the stairway backwards, together. We’d do this exercise over-and-over and anytime their 12 month selves showed interest. My thought was, if they’re going to go down the stairs, then I’m going to show them the safest way possible to accomplish this. Together, we’re going to tackle this ambition they have, and then they’ll take the baseline we’ve established and do it all on their own as soon as possible.

Because that’s how I plan to parent: head on. I know that they’re craving information and experience, because I’ve always craved information and experience. I get it, and I’m ready to meet them where they are.

When it comes to accountability, responsibility, fears, anxiety, mistakes, puberty, girls, sex, drugs, alcohol, and everything in between, we’ll leave no stone unturned. Together, we’re talking about all that shit. Because they’re talking with someone else about it, if not with their momma; they’re reading and seeing “things” on the internet or television or in advertisements. I might as well give them my opinion so they can hear a little truth in their formulation of what will be reality, to them. 

Perhaps this risk-management approach is out of line or useless. Maybe all of you veteran parents out there have tried it, to no avail. If there’s a parenting book on “How to Talk to Your children”, please share it with me. But, based upon my own childhood and my experiences growing up, I see so many benefits to us simply driving along in our mini van and me coming-forth and randomly asking my (someday soon) 11 year old, “So, which of your friends are talking about sex? Are you talking about it? What do you want to know? I bet you’d be surprised to know your dear ol’ mom wasn’t born yesterday, and I was also an 11 year old once, too.”

Just today, Gabe was playing with a toy in the line to check-out at the grocery. Of course I asked him (at least) 100 times to put it down, to be good and helpful, and then we can have a treat when we get home (because bribery is everything). Well… if you’ve ever shopped with three boys ages 6 and under then you know this whole situation was chaos and that Gabe did not, in fact, listen to his mother (though still fully expected to get his treat at the conclusion of this torture, I mean shopping trip).

We’re all walking out of the store with a cart filled to the brim and I’m attempting to corral them all away from moving vehicles and other grocers who are looking at me like I’m a crazy person.

As I’m buckling in the baby, Jimmy says, “Look mommy, Gabe kept the alligator toy.” Gabe slowly lifts the toy to his big, cheesin’-smile and I give him my most disappointed look while feeling my complete disbelief. I drop my head and try to simmer down my boiling blood. 

“Gabe. Do you know that what you did is called stealing?”

“Oh. Yes…. sorry…” Tears brimming his eyes.

“That could get us into very big trouble. You are coming back inside with me to return it.”

I finish loading the groceries, return the cart to the carousel, and then put my new minivan into gear in order to park it closer to the door. “C’mon, Gabe.”

He grabs my hand and his little legs hurry alongside me as we head back into the store, directly for the customer service desk.

When we get there, I let go of Gabe’s hand and say, “Tell her what you did.”

Immediate sobbing ensues. “I ….stealed… this… alligator…”
She looks at me a little confused and perturbed.

“He had this toy in his hand when we left the store. He wants to return it to its home.”

“Oh! It’s o.k. buddy. Thank you.”

“SORRY!” He continued to sob… I say ‘thank you’, take his hand, and we leave. 

Sobbing continues. “Do I have to tell Daddy? Am I going to jail now? Do I still get my donut with sprinkles?”

“Buddy. We always need to talk to Daddy. Not because it is punishment, but because we’re family and we help each other. And no, you are (unfortunately?) too young to go to jail, but sometimes there are consequences for your actions. What you chose to do was wrong. You know that, right?”

“Yes…I am sorry, Mommy. Am I a bad boy?”

“No, Gabe. You are a good boy who chose to do something bad. Do you think you should still have a donut?”

“Um… yes?”

“Really. Why?”

“Because I am sorry and I will never do that again. Do we have to tell Daddy?”

“Yes, Gabe. Daddy cares about you and we always talk about hard things. Even when you choose the wrong thing, that doesn’t change that we love you. We just have to talk about it. Maybe Daddy made wrong choices, too?”

“Yea! Did Daddy go to jail?”

“No, Gabe…” (I’ll let his Daddy tell him the story of how he sat in the back of a cop car for his wrong choice, someday). 

Later that night, as we are tucking all the boys into their beds, I questioned Gabe, “Can you tell me, how did you feel when I asked you about stealing that toy alligator?”

“Bad.”

“How did you feel when you didn’t want to talk to your dad about it?”

“Nervous.”

“How did you feel after you talked to your dad about it?”

“Better.”

Things I remember not feeling comfortable talking to my parents about throughout my adolescence: 

In 2nd grade, a classmate called me a bitch. I ran to a friend to uncover the meaning of this strange and seemingly angry word. When I was a freshman in high school, I stopped eating except for dinner. Partially because it was challenging to ask my Dad for money and I felt like a bother every time I asked, and maybe mostly because I lost a lot of weight and could finally see my more womanly curves and I liked it. And, never-have-I-ever asked my parents about sex. Like, never. Fortunately, I’ve only ever had a handful of boyfriends and I never did a whole lot I wasn’t comfortable with. My fear has always kept me at bay, though I know it didn’t work that way with some of my friends. 

Maybe my head-on approach will have no impact. Yet, I am hopeful that because I am choosing to be open about my experiences and feelings and I am ready to attempt conversations with my children about the hard and uncomfortable things, that they may choose to come to me and just talk. Not always. Not forever. But when it means the most. 

Will they get away with their wrong choices? Nope. Consequences are a real thing in this house. I am not their friend. But, I don’t want to be known only as the consequence-supplier.

These wild boys-who-will-become-young-men can ask their mom the hard, and uncomfortable questions. I do not want them to be afraid of me or my reactions. I’d rather them think, “Oh man… what’s mom gonna say, this time? I wonder if this has ever happened to her? I hope I can still have a donut once we get this talking-thing over with…