Strollerderby : in-laws

If You Had a Parenting Do-Over

JeanneSager — Mon, 27 Apr 2009 21:01:00 GMT

I love "what if" questions - much to my husband's chagrin. So I decided I wouldn't discuss the recent Wall Street Journal piece about parenting do-overs with him. I'd just share it with all of you!

Aren't you lucky? Oh, come on!

Rachel Emma Silverman over at The Juggle says she finds herself thinking "about all the things I’d do differently if I eventually have more children."

So now it's time for the big confession: I do to. And I KNOW I'm not having any more children. But since hindsight's twenty/twenty and all that jazz, I can't help looking back at the early days of my daughter's life and wanting to smack myself a bit.

A taste:

So you were told never to wake a sleeping baby? Someone please tell the nurses at the hospital where I delivered. Because I was waking that kid every two hours to attempt nursing . . . even at 2 a.m. No wonder I never slept.
Worried less that I was going to drop her. Carrying my friend's baby in a football hold recently, I realized I NEVER would have been that carefree with my daughter, and why not?
Throw out the pre-treatment laundry formulas. She was a spit-up queen, and most of the onesies got chucked in the garbage anyway. Or made really good rags.
Not let my in-laws stay at my house that first week. Sorry guys - but I was stressed enough without visitors living in my house, hiding away from the father-in-law trying to nurse, etc.

I have plenty more, but I want to hear from you all - what would you "do over?"

Image: WSJ

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Do You Let Your Kids Cheat?

JeanneSager — Sun, 25 Jan 2009 20:55:00 GMT

My in-laws came to town for the requisite weekend of spoiling, and left as always, some new habits with my daughter.

The artificial southern accent will go away soon enough (to my displaced southern husband's chagrin). It's the cheating I'm worried about.

Because, in true grandparenting style, my father-in-law let our daughter win at every game of Go Fish. But he didn't just bumble his play. He let her reach over and pick cards out of his hand. He let her shift through the "fishing" pile. He let her run right over him.

I've been asking around, and most people tell me to just ignore it. She's three; it will go away. It's cute.

Yes, she's three, and I don't expect that one game of cards is going to ruin her for the rest of her life. But shouldn't I be breaking this bad habit now? Maybe I'm reading a little too much into a pile of cards covered in different kinds of fish, but I can already see a life's obsession with having her way and always getting to win. She's already an only child, and we're aware of that slippery "spoiled only child" slope that we have to navigate. Letting her get away with cheating at cards seems like it would put at least one foot on the sandy edge of that slope.

Is it really OK to encourage a three-year-old to cheat because "it's cute?" What happens at five or six, when it stops being cute and starts becoming obnoxious?

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Babble Talk: Staying Home and Skipping the Santa Myth

Miriam Axel-Lute — Sun, 21 Dec 2008 21:10:00 GMT

All around me it seems, my peers and my fellow Babble writers are exploring putting their collective feet down about holiday traditions. Perhaps it's that we feel emboldened to declare our own rules once our kids start getting older, or maybe it's just time for a little generational power shift. Who knows.

One of the major issues is who goes where when. Jeanne Sager, in her bad parent column "Sorry Can't Make It" has a firm answer: We're staying put. I seem to be luckier than Jeanne in that I generally enjoy the family holiday gatherings I'm expected to attend, but I know plenty of people in her boat, and I recognize all of her other points: The non-festiveness of travel, of being in company mode, of being expected to dress up the kid. I would add to that the sheer exhaustion of decisions and logistics, since in my extended family we've never settled on a default plan—I think we've spent Christmas day in five different places over the past eight years.

So we, too, have decided to make it our new default to stay in our very own house for most of Christmas day itself, with a drive to nearby grandparents for dinner. It feels like declaring a center, and lets us create a Christmas tradition that is our family's own, instead of trying to awkwardly re-create the childhood Christmases of one of our families of origin.

We're still getting in the car on the 26th for a long drive, it's true, but somehow that feels different.

Meanwhile, Sasha Brown-Worsham won't let her child believe in Santa, and commenters seem to think she's taking an extreme and Grinchy stance. I never would have expected it, having been a believe-until-late kid myself, but as a parent, I'm with Sasha. For me it doesn't have to do with trauma from mall santas, or even wanting to avoid waiting in line to see one. Nor does it have to do with being a humbug or a Grinch—if anything we go a bit overboard with emphasizing the magic and stories of the season. If my daughter decides for herself to believe in Santa, as some kids who are explicitly told otherwise do, that won't bother me.

Nor I don't mind telling the story. I've read Rudolph in the original rhyming couplets a dozen times in the past week. In fact, the way we've decided to handle Santa's omnipresence is just to add a bunch of other stories about gift-giving figures (La Befana, Holle, St. Nicholas) to my daughter's repetoire of seasonal tales.

The thing that gets me is how people suddenly get seriously invested in our children really believing something that isn't true, as if that's required in order to have a sense of wonder about the season. Not just telling a fun story, but going to major contortions to make it seem plausible (different handwriting on the tags etc.) and having hysterics if another kid lets the truth slip (or a parent opts out of the game). I am also pretty creeped out by the idea that some random old guy is keeping track of your behavior and is going to judge you worthy of gifts or not a year later. How very Calvinist. Besides, no parent I've heard of actually withholds gifts for bad behavior any more.

There's also the story I remember hearing of the girl who kept asking Santa for things she knew her parents couldn't afford, and kept getting them. When she learned, she was consumed with guilt. Yippee! There's the Christmas spirit for you!

So, while I won't be on a crusade to spoil other families' Santa charades, we're not playing, thanks.

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Your Mother-in-Law Really Is Bad For Your Health

JeanneSager — Tue, 16 Dec 2008 17:35:00 GMT

If you're one of those people who read that headline and shook your head in denial, good for you. But let me tell you - you just aren't normal.

Lucky, yes. Normal. . . well, let scientists in Japan be the judge. Because a study by Harvard Medical School researchers showed Japanese women who live with their mothers-in-law are three times more likely to have a heart attack.

Making this study even more significant? Japanese women are traditionally at a much lower risk of cardiac disease than those of us living in the states.

The study followed ninety-one thousand men and women ages forty to sixty-nine over a ten-year period, determining men had little affect on their health when Mom came to live with them while their wives saw a decrease in cardiac health. The women were less likely to drink and smoke (maybe because they had someone breathing down their neck, clucking every time they picked up a wineglass?), but despite not having had any cardiac issues before the study began, six hundred seventy-one participants had been diagnosed with coronary artery disease by the study's end and three hundred thirty-nine had died of heart disease.

On the positive end for parents, the women who had both a mother-in-law and her own children living at home were actually better off than those whose kids have already flown the coop (it's like multiple children - more than one person for the old bat to heckle, er, watch over). Rather than tripling her chances of having a heart attack, the woman's chances were doubled.

So, Dads, it's up to you - which Mom needs your help?

Image: Amazon

Source: New York Times

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A Mother Stalks Her Young Son’s Crush

Hannah Tennant-Moore — Mon, 20 Oct 2008 21:00:00 GMT

“He did not linger long enough for me to squash him completely into myself….”

The above is not, unfortunately, a sentence from a soft core porn novel. It is an excerpt from a New York Times essay in which a mother describes her obsessive, jealous, and blind love for her nine-year-old son. Thanks to Jezebel for directing me to this gem of a Modern Love piece.

The only thing creepier than the essay’s title—“The Tiny Hand that Robs the Cradle”—is the fact that this tiny hand belongs to a third grader who has a crush on the author’s son. Somebody call a family therapist, stat.

Kate Krautkramer is a teacher at her son Sarvis’ school. When she learns that one of his classmates has scrawled “I ‘heart’ Sarvis” in the bathroom stall, she completely loses her mind. In hopes of discovering the identity of this “little vixen” who was so unforgivably bold as to publicly proclaim an interest in her little boy, the jealous mother turns first to the principal, then to her son’s female classmates, who all “acted innocent in their double braids tied with impossibly pink ribbons.”

With no leads, Krautkramer takes to using the bathroom stall with the Sarvis graffiti every single day. She leans her body against her son’s name and traces the heart with her hand. She comforts herself with the thought that “Graffiti Girl,” as Kautkramer derisively terms her son’s classmate, “didn’t know Sarvis the way I knew Sarvis, no matter what the bathroom wall proclaimed.” But she also torments herself with thoughts of one of Sarvis’s nine-year-old peers “turning her 18-inch hips just so for the very first time, or taking a try at batting her lashes.”

I understand that there is irony at work in this essay. Yet no amount of irony can take away the extreme mortification the author’s son will have to withstand for the rest of his life, now that his mother has publicly confessed not only to having Oedipal urges that would make Freud blush, but also to being clinically insane.

Besides, the irony frequently gives way to disturbingly honest reflection: “I knew it was only an innocent crush, yet I truly lamented that some little girl was pushing my boy into a vaguely sexual consciousness.” Actually, neither Sarvis nor his classmate are displaying any "sexual consciousness." They’re just kids. The mother is the one who sexualizes youth by referring to the girls’ “tiny blue jeans and frilly tops,” and by describing Sarvis’s hair as “brown ringlets” that “hung in heart-stopping whorls down his neck.”

If Kautkramer’s goal is to make sure that her son never marries (or goes on a date), mission accomplished. No girl in her right mind would ever put up with this woman as a mother-in-law.

Photo: New York Times

Do Your Kids Go to Camp Grandma As Much as You Did?

JeanneSager — Mon, 13 Oct 2008 18:05:00 GMT

The day my daughter gets married, I won't be losing a daughter. I'll be gaining a title. Mother-in-law. It makes me shudder.

With my daughter banned from dating until she's at least 47 (less of a chance of her getting knocked up on the first date that way), it's not something I think about often. I'm not quite that narcissistic (I said not quite). Still, reading the story in Britain's The Telegraph over the weekend pronouncing mothers-in-law are no longer a joke, I felt betwixt and between about my very distant future.

The wife's mother, they say, is no longer stuck at home and thus in your face, telling you how her dear little Snookums likes his eggs and wants his pants pressed. Good to know - as I don't press pants and my breakfast-making skills are more of the "grab whole wheat frozen pancakes from freezer, pop in toaster oven, slap on plate with slab of butter" variety.

Because it's out of London (with a host of mother-in-law jokes I haven't heard stateside, better brush up), most of the statistics quoted in the piece are Britain-specific. But I'd imagine they'd translate rather closely to life on this side of the pond - they point to women getting married later, more women working, all social phenomena we're seeing in America. Of note? Mothers-in-law are spending less time with the grandchildren because of the changes.

It's meant to show they're butting in less, which this daughter-in-law supports, but it made me a little sad. If, by some miracle, my husband lets his little girl out on unchaperoned at say, 36, and we end up grandparents, will the fast pace of today's life have jumped to such hyperspeed that we never get to see the little munchkins? While I grew up in the same town as one set of grandparents, the town where the second set had a second house, my daughter has one set of grandparents living four states away. My own parents ask to see her frequently, but factor in my job, my husband's and the jobs of both of my parents, and there are weeks that go by without the schedules jiving just right for a meet-up.

If that's the kind of future for the new mother-in-law, I'd rather have the jokes.

Image: CopyBlogger

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5 Reasons Wives Do More Housework

Cole Gamble — Tue, 15 Apr 2008 13:00:00 GMT

A recent study found wives do seven times more housework than their husbands. As I write this post my wife is folding laundry, and I wonder, can this be true? Do wives really do more housework? Nah, crazy talk. Oh honey, while you are tackling that mound of freshly laundered clothes, could you grab my coffee mug? It’s sooooo far away.

Okay, okay who thinks this comes as a big surprise? It's a stereotype, a running joke, a real screw job for women, but I think I have some legitimate reasons why women do more around the house.

First, let me give you a little background. I am actually quite domesticated. I grew up in a house where the father cooked more than half the meals and definitely did his share of chores. It's funny, because I thought this was normal. I think many guys of my generation grew up under similar circumstances; homes where both parents work and so the men were needed to pitch in to a greater degree. So in an age of more enlightened men, why do women do more? Here are my theories:

Old Fashioned Sexism. Not until I met my in-laws did I discover some people really see a difference in “women's work” and “men's work.” Dishes, vacuuming, windows—my father-in-law won't touch them. The only kind of chores he'll consider are those masculine enough to present a potential for physical danger (i.e. changing lawn mower blades, knocking down a hornet's nest). I would suggest he wash all the knives in the house after having five or six whiskey sodas if he requires that Fear Factor element, but I don't think he would buy it.

Men simply have a different tolerance for disarray than women. I see it whenever my wife goes out of town. Am I disgusting when I am left to my own resources? Do I allow plant and animal life to flourish in pools of spilled orange juice on our counters? No, but I certainly don't do much in the way of housework but every other day (a thought that cause's my wife's throat to close up and sends her into coronary palpitations). Where am I saving time? Oh, I suppose one could start by not making the bed in the morning (I'm going to mess it up in fourteen hours anyway). Simple corner cutting practices like this streamline my life when I am on my own so I can literally drive to work still half asleep. When it comes to finer cleaning like water spots on the mirror or dust on the bookshelf, women might think men just don't give a damn. Not necessarily true, we are just unaware of it. When my wife says, “This place is a dump” I look around and see a perfectly ordered house with everything in its place. I literally can not see the squalor she sees. For a man to see the dust, it has to be within six inches of his nose, so unless he finds himself trapped under a collapsed bookcase, said bookcase will not see Mr. Pledge until the dust is as thick as a dictionary.

Women don't like how men do it. I mentioned my wife is folding laundry. Help was offered by me but Nicole declined it. She usually does, as did my step-mother when I was a kid, because both women can't stand how I fold laundry. I honestly don't know what I am doing wrong; there is some kind of perfect geometry to underwear folding I apparently can't get my head around.

Some chores have higher point values. My wife has zero interest in cleaning the cat box. Who does? So the job falls upon me and because of the sheer grossness factor of the chore we've agreed my turd sifting contribution is worth three of her preferred tasks.

Women just want to take care of us because they love us so much. Do I really mean this, or am I just baiting for comments?

Photo: www.theage.com