Hurtling through Space with a Toddler

This parenting thing just gets more and more difficult. I feel like more of a control freak than Kyra Phillips' sister-in-law, with constant correction of grammar and reminders for "Thank you," "Your welcome," and "Yes m'am" and "No m'am." The adage "Give them an inch and they'll take a mile?" That was undoubtedly first said by a parent of a toddler, and that parent was spot on. There is a sense that I am constantly hanging on by a thread of control, that failure to correct one little rudeness, or to nip a tantrum in the bud before it starts will send us all flying off into space like Lee Adama on Battlestar Galactica, the Editors' "You are Fading" as my soundtrack.

Then the kids start Mommies Morning Out or preschool. No longer do you have that constant control, the Mama chain of command, the Daddy Judge and Jury and Executioner. There is a period of the day where your child could suddenly take up crack or prostitution, and you would miss that oh-so-important first transgression lesson. Suddenly, your child is playing with children you've never met (Jacksons and Ezras and Ethans and lots and lots of Jacobs and Aidens,) and whose parents you have simply nodded hello to in a hallway with fluorescent lights. Your eldest is suddenly playing with younger siblings, boys schooled in the ways of Yu-Gi-Oh! - Whatever the fuck that is; You have no idea, because you have not yet encountered it, or half of the other stuff that comes out of your son's mouth.

We are still at the point where we play Matchbox cars. The most violent thing that happens to them is a "boom!" or a "big, biiiiig crash!" We are a no hitting, no biting, no kicking, no pushing household. All of these actions are met with swift punishment, and then we move on.

So, imagine my speechlessness when Rollie came home chanting something he had no doubt learned at school, because he sure as hell didn't learn it at home:

"Fight!Fight!Fight!" he yelled, with fire in his eyes and a fist raised high.

I wasn't even sure what to say. I told him that "fighting isn't nice. We don't fight." He yelled "Fight! Fight! Fight!" right in my face. I calmly told him again that it wasn't a nice thing to say. No need to raise my voice, or draw undue attention to my alarm - if there is anything a parent knows about toddlers, it is that you can't let them see when they have you on the ropes.

Really, though, I know it is a losing battle, that I can't keep Rollie in a plastic bubble or hermetically sealed containment building until he is eighteen. I just didn't realize that his peers would start having an influence so soon. The control freak must let go. I must trust that some of the other parents out there, the ones whose kids come into contact with mine, are going to do a decent job of raising their children, so that my job might be a little less harrowing.

I sure do feel like Lee Adama today, floating in space, a small oxygen leak in my flight suit, watching the fireworks in the distance, and completely at a loss as to how to get back to the ship.