LOSING THE GUILT GAME

Roughly five times a day, I screw up as a parent. However this morning’s antics may have earned me a spot in the Mommy Hall of Shame. At 10:00am, I had just settled down to work and a coffee, when my cell phone cheerily announced: “Chaperone Field Trip.” A pit instantly formed in my stomach. I was supposed to be heading to a demonstration of the New York City Ballet with my daughter's class that very moment.

In a panic, I bolted for the door, sprinting the six blocks to her school. Just as I breathlessly rounded the corner, my daughter’s class was lining up to board the bus. “STELLA!!!! STELLA!!!!” I hollered (not my daughter’s name but you get the allusion). “STOP!!! I’M THE CHAPERONE. I’M THE MOTHER!!! THE MOTHER!!!” Mercifully, my daughter was already on the bus and missed her mother's theatrical display.

Since I do guilt particularly well, I apologized profusely to my daughter. But she could not have care less. Instead, her eyes widened with delight at the prospect of spending school time with me. I had failed myself, not her. As a lovely morning unfolded, I managed to keep my guilt at bay. Self-flagellation would do nothing more than destroy my daughter's day at the ballet.

Oddly enough, one of Jeanne’s most dramatic “failures” revolved around City Ballet too. We were enjoying a pre-Nutracker dinner, when Mom realized the show began at 6pm, not 8pm. Since we arrived in the middle of the first act, we sat in the aisles. I saw it as an adventure. But what I remember most vividly was the fragile tone of my mother’s voice when she discovered her error. It was simultaneously heart-breaking and unnerving.

We make mistakes. Sometimes, they are of the logistical nature. Other times, I am, well, kind of a bitch. Instead of delivering sing-song homilies like Marmee in Little Women, I bark orders to “Put your shoes on!” I beg my daughter to “Just stop whining. No whining," or snap at my son for sneaking off with iPad to play Angry Birds…again.

These things happen. Yet I’ve found that when I eliminate the guilt, and simply admit that “Mommy can get grumpy,” my kids recover much better. They’ve also learned that when you push someone too far, they get annoyed, even angry. This is why I found Issa Waters’ BlogHer post No Excuses: Parenting Is Not Hard particularly unhelpful.

In an effort to argue that the refrain “Parenting Is Hard” cannot justify parents' bad behavior, she writes:

“Sometimes I participate in a discussion about someone in public being mean to their child. By “being mean” I mean spanking, slapping, grabbing, yanking, dragging, yelling, name-calling, belittling, punishing and so forth. And there’s always someone in these discussions ready to declare that “parenting is hard” and we should therefore cut the parent some slack. And I just reject this wholeheartedly. It is not hard to not treat people like shit. Children are small, dependent people, and we should be doubly sure not to treat them like shit.”

For starters, when did “slapping, yanking…and belittling” fall into the same category as “yelling” and “punishing?” By this definition, most parents I know are unfit to raise their children. We all stand accused, and are therefore…guilty. Waters’ argument turns a naïve eye to how dangerous such guilt can be to both parent and child.

Perhaps “Parenting Is Not Hard,” but being human can be excruciating. To me, these two roles are inextricably intertwined. I want my children to understand that I am not perfect. I am just a flawed person –one who forgets things and loses her patience-- but who also loves her children enough to chase after a bus to make things right.

DON'T MESS WITH SANTA

Eight years, six weeks, and a handful of days into parenting, and it finally happened: My daughter no longer believes in Santa Claus. How this dreaded moment unfolded was particularly heartbreaking.

I was sitting with my children, waiting for a class to start when a woman, whom I like very much, said (to someone else) in a loud voice, “Can you believe a teacher was fired for telling the children there is no Saaaan….”

I snapped like a brittle gingerbread cookie.

“STOP TALKING NOW!” I shouted, practically leaping to cover my daughter’s ears. “I’m dead serious.”

The woman looked somewhat confused --an understandable reaction since we were waiting for Hebrew lesson to begin. (For a full explanation of this dichotomy, go back to last year’s Christmakah As We Know It.) Nevertheless, she apologetically bit her lip, silenced by my demonic display.

I suppose as my husband would put it, I was “overreacting.” You could even argue that I was downright rude. Since I genuinely like this woman, I felt a little bad. Not that bad though. Nobody messes with Santa.

Just as I was about to burst into tears, my daughter swooped in and began hugging me, mumbling: “Mommy, it’s OK. It’s OK!!!” Clearly, she was not the traumatized party in this scenario.

Apparently, my daughter had quit on Santa long ago, but was keeping up the charade for my benefit. She learned that behavior from me. As I wrote last year, Mom went to her death bed eerily refusing to deny Santa’s existence. “You never know,” she would say breathlessly, “You never know.”

I intend to do exactly the same.

“Why?” you might ask. The myth of Santa is hardly honorable. He exists to encourage us to lie to our children while spending money we don’t have. A struggling single mother once told me that she did not want Santa getting the credit for the incredibly hard work she put into buying her daughter gifts. I cannot deny the truth in her thought process.

Nevertheless, when I woke up on Christmas morning as a child, a palpable magic hung in the air. It really and truly wasn’t the presents themselves. On those mornings, the tree always seemed to glow preternaturally, and my house felt like a castle. For a brief moment, a quiet fell upon my family; we shared a fleeting sense of bliss. Christmas had come and the day lay before us, full of promise and the joy in being together.

Even when I stopped believing in Santa that feeling clung to Christmas morning like thick snow. In later years, the magic came from knowing we had carved out time and money to celebrate as a family. Yet, to me that magic was still synonymous with Santa.

My daughter and I have yet to acknowledge the moment Santa was outed. We seem to have struck an implicit understanding to keep the charade going. Maybe she is just looking out for her little brother or doesn't want to risk not getting presents. But I like to think that, like my mother, there’s a tiny part of her whispering: “You never know. You never know.”

What's your opinion? Why do you or don't you live the lie?