My entire life I knew I was never going to be an uptight parent. I hate people who restrict their children for no apparent reason, which (I assume) satisfies their self-centered need to quell the irrational whims of childhood that actually make a child --gasp-- a child. I wanted, and still want, to be the cool parent. No, not the dope-providing, immature parent trying to relive their glory days, but the parent whose house is where everyone feels comfortable.
However, the more and more I parent, the more and more I feel like a killjoy. I remember growing up and hating my parents' ridiculous rules, because I thought they served no purpose. Don't tell Dan and Cath, but I have changed my opinion on rules entirely. Turns out, these rules had plenty of good reasons for being in existence (like sudden death, for example).
“Keep the water in the tub!”
Assumed reason: My parents suck.
Actual reason: Water is a total hazard. Both Reagan and Ashton have busted it because of water on the floor, and I’m talking head over heals, no limb to brace, tile-cracking fall. Fallen child then looks at me with those sad, red eyes and act like it was all my fault.
“Food stays in the kitchen!”
Assumed reason: My mom and dad think I can't do anything. I most certainly can keep food on this plate.
Actual reason: Eating around the house takes one mess and multiples it by 10. I was finding food freaking everywhere. Under the couch, in the trunk of toy cars, on and in the carpet, even though I thought I was watching the kids like a hawk.
“Sit in your chair!”
Assumed reason: My parents are mean.
Actual reason: You will fall. It will hurt. You will cry and ruin my dinner.
“Don’t touch the laundry!”
Assumed reason: My parents love ruining my fun.
Actual reason: There is nothing more annoying than spending 30 minutes folding clothes only to return to a clothes bomb executed by the two stealth bombers who run this house. Sure, it's a blast to walk around with a shirt on your head, but here's your warning: it's a one way ticket to time out.
“Clean up your toys!”
Assumed reason: My parents think I'm a slave.
Actual reason: Somehow 10 toys become a minefield and more than likely, I'm going to get my foot impaled by a block or trip and fall over an invisible dump truck. You think my stumbles are hilarious; however, they make me want to ring your neck.
Now that I'm in my parents' shoes, I am certain that my kids will think I suck and will rebel against the list of rules I've made. I know that comes with the territory. I'm just having a little trouble fitting into this particular part of the job description. I'm not someone who necessarily believes in the black and white, so making hard and fast rules is challenging. Sure I believe in right and wrong, but who cares if it is raining and the kid wants to go play?
I wish parenting came with a set of 10-Commandment-like rules, so that I wouldn't feel like everyday I was setting another rule in reaction to some ridiculous or death defying incident. Furthermore, at what point will I embrace my loser-ness and relish in the never-ending, always contested rule-making? How have you coped?
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