Spa-mie, Hate Me
So night before last, my eleven-year old declares, "Mommie, it's spa night for you. I've run you a nice bath, I'm going to wash your back, and then I have this lovely baby lotion to give you a massage." And she did, and tucked me into bed and loved me because I am clearly the best mommie in the whole world. (And because I made meatloaf on Sunday.)
And today she hates me.
Would she comb her hair for school? "Oh please," says she, with enough sarcasm to melt through the decks of Ripley's spaceship, (Alien, remember?) "Do I ever do that?" Will she wear a long sleeved shirt? O-KAY, but only because I have the unmitigated gall to suggest it. Huff. Huff.
Now, I know for a fact I never spoke to my mother in this way. We were raised in a regime of terror. All my mother had to do was lift one eyebrow and give us THAT LOOK and my sisters and I were reduced to quivering blobs of obedience. Human Shitzus.
Do I credit the difference with my daughter to some fatal lack of skill on my part? Perhaps my devotion to the New Laxity in Parenting? Not so much. I think it has more to do with the fact that, growing up, mom had the car. Here in NYC, my daughter can walk home from school if she has to. But in my hometown, walking all the way home from school to our little subdivision was unthinkable -- tantamount to crossing the moors in the dark of a new moon, wolfhounds in pursuit. When a woman has that much power over you, you play nice.
To gain equivalent power these days you have to encourage your child to develop a serious passion for something you can easily withhold. For my son it was Pokemon cards. If he stepped out of line, ha! The collection was ours! Worked like a charm until we forgot to give them back for a couple of months and he completely lost interest. That’s the trouble with these parenting tricks. You have to stay on top of them. Like the time I tried my husband’s trick of counting to 5. It’s simple in theory – if they don’t hop to when you ask them to do something, you say, “You’ve got until 5” and start counting. I saw him do it, it worked like a charm, so one day when the kids were too noisy in the car, I thought, okay, my turn. “Quiet down now!” No response. “1…2…3…4…5!” I boomed in my most stentorian tone. No response. I turned to hubby and said, “now what?” He said, “I don’t know – you’re not supposed to get to 5!” Now he tells me.
I’m sticking with meatloaf.
And today she hates me.
Would she comb her hair for school? "Oh please," says she, with enough sarcasm to melt through the decks of Ripley's spaceship, (Alien, remember?) "Do I ever do that?" Will she wear a long sleeved shirt? O-KAY, but only because I have the unmitigated gall to suggest it. Huff. Huff.
Now, I know for a fact I never spoke to my mother in this way. We were raised in a regime of terror. All my mother had to do was lift one eyebrow and give us THAT LOOK and my sisters and I were reduced to quivering blobs of obedience. Human Shitzus.
Do I credit the difference with my daughter to some fatal lack of skill on my part? Perhaps my devotion to the New Laxity in Parenting? Not so much. I think it has more to do with the fact that, growing up, mom had the car. Here in NYC, my daughter can walk home from school if she has to. But in my hometown, walking all the way home from school to our little subdivision was unthinkable -- tantamount to crossing the moors in the dark of a new moon, wolfhounds in pursuit. When a woman has that much power over you, you play nice.
To gain equivalent power these days you have to encourage your child to develop a serious passion for something you can easily withhold. For my son it was Pokemon cards. If he stepped out of line, ha! The collection was ours! Worked like a charm until we forgot to give them back for a couple of months and he completely lost interest. That’s the trouble with these parenting tricks. You have to stay on top of them. Like the time I tried my husband’s trick of counting to 5. It’s simple in theory – if they don’t hop to when you ask them to do something, you say, “You’ve got until 5” and start counting. I saw him do it, it worked like a charm, so one day when the kids were too noisy in the car, I thought, okay, my turn. “Quiet down now!” No response. “1…2…3…4…5!” I boomed in my most stentorian tone. No response. I turned to hubby and said, “now what?” He said, “I don’t know – you’re not supposed to get to 5!” Now he tells me.
I’m sticking with meatloaf.
posted by Whoopla at
10:41 AM
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