Babies are Assholes
I met a guy at a party who had four children—one in college, one in high school, one in middle school and one in preschool. I quickly did the math, even with 2 bourbons under my belt, and realized that he would be legally responsible for children for 40 years of his life. Holy shit!
I adore Ollie and Harry. Nothing groundbreaking there—people love their children—but I don’t feel quite so strongly about parenting. The hectic lifestyle, exorbitant expenses and unrealistic expectations make being a modern parent exhausting. I won’t even mention how babies are huge assholes—oh wait, maybe I just did. But come on, they’re demanding tyrants with deplorable communication skills.
I’m far from naturally maternal, so much so I didn’t realize babies had to be burped after every feeding UNTIL they burp. Ollie was 7 days old before my brother, Jeremy, witnessed my half-ass attempt at burping his newborn nephew and informed me of the required post-feeding burp. No wonder poor baby Ollie had such terrible gas! Another telling sign—the first diaper I changed was on my first born when he was 12 hours old. Oh, and I avoided holding my godson, Tyler, until he was 8 or 9 months old and for three days leading up to his christening, I had nightmares I would drop him into the baptismal font.
After 10+ years of parenting, I’ve grown into the role, but I’ll never be that mother that drops everything because one of my boys has a hangnail. I’ve taught my boys to do donuts in the snow, rock out to AC/DC’s Highway to Hell and walk on the outside of the sidewalk when escorting a lady. While I’ll happily share a sip of beer, there’s no way I’m letting them win Uno without a fight to the finish. In our house, if you’re not digging what’s on the cafeteria menu, you’re welcome to pack your lunch…yourself.
We’re in the golden age of parenting where our sons can mostly care for themselves, but they still enjoy our company. I’m cherishing these days because I’m fully aware they are numbered. While there is a twinge of sadness that my boys are growing up, I’m thrilled to see the young men they’re growing into. And a big part of me enjoys the freedom that older children affords us from being able to leave them home while we’re at the neighbors or assigning chores like folding towels or taking out the trash.
Basically, I’ve embraced the 1970’s mother mindset, sans Virginia Slims and bell bottoms, and I’m proud of it. I strongly suspect those 1970’s mom had the right idea—they loved their children but knew making them the center of their universe would give an unhealthy sense of importance and set unrealistic expectations. For example, overly-planned, Pinterest-inspired birthday parties set the bar higher than any toddler needs or cares about, but may become accustomed to.
I guess time will tell if my parenting techniques are pass or fail. I suspect any attempt at parenting will yield mixed results and I’m certain nobody escapes childhood without mental bumps and bruises. Ultimately, I love my boys and I show them my genuine self, warts and all. So even if my mothering is lacking, I hope they’ll look back and laugh at the multiple times I got pulled over and talked my way out of a ticket or that I readily laughed at fart jokes. Except at the dinner table because Mollie Bentley has standards.
I’d love to hear your parenting philosophies. Are you a helicopter parent, tending to your kids’ every need? Are you a tiger mom, over-scheduling and setting ridiculously high standards? Are you a fun parent, trying to be your child’s bff? Do you take issue with my 1970’s inspired approach? Please comment below or shoot me an email at mollie@midlifepickle.com.
