Stop the Brat Coddling!

I really hate to judge people's parenting skills in writing on my blog (I totally prefer it on the phone with my sister while I kill a bottle of wine), but . . .well, let the judging begin.
If your child is screaming because she doesn't want to get in her car seat, and I am right next to you, waiting to put my child in her car seat, but can't because opening my door would bang in to your car door, please do not shush your child in a quiet, soothing, sweet voice, pleading with her to please calm down and climb in her seat like a big girl, as if you are talking her down off a fucking ledge. Please just put your child in the car seat, hold her down firmly while you strap her in, and ignore her cries of distress. I guarantee, she will not be harmed in the process.* In so doing, you just might show your daughter that she is not the center of the Goddamn universe, and I might might make it home before mine pisses in her pants.

If your son breaks into uncontrollable tears of terror when I ask him to please stop hitting the dog, he is not a "sensitive soul" he is a brat who has not heard the word "No" often enough.

And if your child thinks that my 4 BR, 2.5 BA house is "really small," then maybe it is your family's world view that is a bit on the small side.

*If the child turns blue, that means you might be pushing a little too firmly; ease up until she can breathe to cry again, then start over again with slightly less pressure.

On the Cusp of A New World

More often than not, Todd will read to Rollie before bedtime, and I will read and put Tiller down. When I do get the opportunity to put both kids down for the evening, like last night when Todd went out with friends, I am always amazed at how far Rollie has come in his reading.

Okay, he can't really read, but he already knows his ABCs (big whoop, right?) and he knows all of the sounds that the letters make which is a little more impressive. He is driving me crazy asking what letter words start with, and in addition to being able to spell his own name, he can also spell mine. (He doesn't forget the E, either.) Last night he wowed me, though.

Damn can that boy memorize. I mean, when I think about the fact that I know every word to "Licensed to Ill" and "Paul's Boutique" and will probably be on my deathbed and still remember them, well, that kind of amazes me, because I was one class away from a minor in French, and the only thing I remember from that is how to say cheese. ("Fromage." Impressive, no?) I think I thought that repeated listenings while smoking cigarettes and drinking heavily were responsible for my remarkable memorization skills, but maybe it was just my inner child that accomplished the searing of whole albums' lyrics across my brain.

Because my little man can recite Where the Wild Things Are from beginning to end, with little to no prompting. He is a wonder. And there is nothing sweeter or cuter than a three-year-old reciting Where the Wild Things Are from memory. Must get on video. Must show the world my child genius.

In all seriousness, I am so proud of the boy. He is sweet and smart and funny and compassionate. And the three things that I want most for my children is to be happy, healthy, and lovers of the written word. I can feel that he is just on the cusp of making the leap from memorization to reading, and I am so excited for him that this whole world is about to open up for him when he cracks a book.

I think we are doing pretty good so far. Yay us. Yay Rollie.

Still Another Sign That I am a Better Than Average Parent

I was in the grocery store this morning, pushing the cart out the sliding doors to the parking lot. One of the guys in charge of retrieving the carts from the cart corral walked out to the car with me. He asked me if I liked the car kind of buggy. (I call it a "race cart;" It is the buggy with a car on the front of it for the kids to sit in, and it is a fucking bitch to navigate a grocery store with one of them, but it beats having them throwing your groceries out of the cart while you are not looking.)

I said, "Yeah, I guess so. Why?"

He told me that, on weekends when the store is crowded, most parents will wait until a race cart becomes available before doing their grocery shopping.

I just stared at him, then "Are you kidding?"

"Nope." We both laughed, then shook our heads in dismay.

Really, people. Don't you have something better to do with your time on Saturdays than hang out in the cart area of your local Kroger, just to appease your fucking spoiled brat of a child? That's ridiculous.

When I get to the store, if there are no racecar buggies available, I tell my kids to suck it up and ride the old-fashioned way. They bitch and moan, but there is a lesson here for them. They learn that they are not the goddamn center of the universe, that there are times in life when you just have to deal with a little disappointment. Not a bad lesson to learn on a Saturday at Kroger.