I made a foolish mistake one time, sharing a sip of La Croix with my kids. Now they come up to me as I'm drinking one, pawing at me, asking for sips. I should tell them, "No! We get short changed 4 cans because they're sold in 8 packs." but I'm weak and I end up pouring them soda in a cup, or giving them the can if it's half full. Would I risk sipping after them? Not likely, since they enjoy letting the soda pour into their mouth, and pour back into the can like waves lapping on the beach pulled back to the ocean.
George skipped his nap yesterday and ended up staying up late with the babysitter. I was expecting him to patter off to bed around 6:30, so when I walked in at 8, and saw him standing in the backyard with a Super Soaker, I frowned with the upcoming feat of putting an overtired wild man to sleep. He didn't take a nap again today, and grew almost manic around 5 pm, doing an evil villain laugh after each action.
This afternoon he had to do a long timeout because he drew on the wall with a crayon. Not just a tiny little scribble, but a full blown, length of the couch, scribbling. Kiki tried this once when she was his age, but it was a three inch long light mark. I attempted cleaning George's wall art, but the paint started to chip away. I read baking soda will remove the crayon, so after George goes off for a very early bedtime, I'll give it a try.
If I tell my family about this incident, only my mom would understand. I remember as a kid, there were crayon marks on the wall. In fact, I distinctly remember my grandma staying with us while my parents were in Germany finding our future house, and my sisters and I had to clean, preparing for our soon departure, which included scrubbing the crayon off the walls, fuming because my my brothers didn't do have to do anything but play Nintendo and drink Kool-Aid.
Fast forward to now, where my brothers and sisters seem to always shake their head at me with the same look, "You should whoop that kid's ass!" after seeing George. And I have to remind them how we used to beat each other up, and act destructive before figuring out binge drinking. We cut all the hair off a couple Barbies so we'd have "Ken" dolls to use when pretending our dolls were having sex, or how we'd execrate my cabbage patch doll, named Tuna Fish Head, by always yelling at him for being the worst baby a parent could get.
I saw a friend a couple weeks ago who brought up the parenting book "Bringing Up Bebe" written by an American who lives in Paris. I ordered it because I need professional help raising my kids in addition to opinionated family members. Like I've said before, most parenting books can be summed up into a half page of bullet points, but the 200 page platform is a nice way to share relatable personal experiences.
I started the book, and about 1/3 of the way through realized I should have read this book four years ago. I don't need advice on how to put a newborn to sleep, or when to start feeding a baby solid foods and if I ever do, I'll pull this book out from the stack that will pile on top of it before I clean my bedside table. Or read the bullet points nice Mommy and Daddy bloggers put together for desperate people who need to get the information quickly, and then follow up implementing the bullet points by reading the hilarious anecdotes the writers pad the advice with.
I didn't realize how much of a French parent I already am, aside from allowing my kids to snack, but I'm a good listener and never talk to them in a silly child-like voice and they always eat "regular" food. The book was helpful with reminding me not to feel bad about being tough, being a confident alpha dog, and don't rush to the kids when they're distressed, encouraging them to be self-sufficient.
Bringing Up Bebe talks about how the days are devoted to children, but the evening are for adults, and because of this the children play by themselves, without needing parents there clapping with every puzzle or being the judge on who had the toy first. Kids learn to sort these things out themselves. That was how I grew up. There was a play room, and we stayed in that room. My mom did not oversee us, stopping the lesbian Barbie sex scenes, or shaking her finger at us as we pretended we were drunk and smoking pretzel sticks, while yelling at the cabbage patch doll for being such a sad disappointment.
However, now when I get together with my family, the children play in the center of the room, and all the adults corral around, watching and moderating. When a kid goes over to another one and snatches a toy out of their hand, then a parent steps in. As a kid, our playroom was a parent-free-zone, I don't recall too many times where adults were amongst us. During times where I felt teased or tormented by my older siblings and cousins, I'd wonder off to the parent zone and sit around silently hoping I'd be offered a very fancy After-Eight chocolate square.
Because La Croix isn't free, and it hurts my heart to see George accidentally spill the bubbly drink across the table, or even worse, find an abandoned half full can, I drink them in privacy. I'll wait till the kids are preoccupied playing to crack the can. My love of La Croix is turning out to be a fantastic parenting aid. By needing a secret space to drink, I'm inadvertently encouraging them to play by themselves, and giving myself the independence parents rob themselves of by hovering over their kids and overpowering their developing voice of reason. I have to deal with the crayon marks because of letting them play without constant supervision, but they're still great kids. Much better than that ungrateful Tuna Fish Head.
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| The dog is not amused. |
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