I lay the contract out on the table, with three of us clutching as many pens and all waiting to hear what the other had to say. I ask if they think it is fair, I ask them to ask questions if they have any and I add notes to the bottom of our document. The three of us sit together around our cereal bowls and make an agreement, a binding contract. Granted this is a contract with a 6 and 7 year old and may not hold up in court, but in the confines of this house, that contract has become the golden standard. Children have a way of over stepping their boundaries and being that my children are no different from most (except that they are more handsome, creative, beautiful and talented than any kid ever on the face of the planet) I found myself taking the drama out of expectations. When my children are home, there are rules. Unspoken rules of dont bite, dont backtalk, dont bullshit…… but also many rules that need to be laid out in a plain and simple language. Our contract did just that, explaining out my list of “demands” for them to see every morning as they read the back of their cereal boxes. 1. Before 10 am, you can eat only cereal. A rule bred from necessity. I try to cook at least one thing with each of the older boys when they are here, so when they are poking around the kitchen in the early morning, they also know how to use the micorwave and toaster without me having to worry. I still worry, as is my nature, so the rules are staying. Before ten am (when I get up and make breakfast) no electrical appliances are used in the kitchen. Plain and simple, if you dont play with fire, you dont get burned.
2. Pick up your room before you can do anything else. 3 boys, do you get the scope of this? 3 boys, 4 if you include baby daddy. Keeping this house clean is a full time job in itself and Im not picking up any more dirty underware off of the floor. If any of these boys wants to go outside of the house in any given day, believe you me, they will be cleaning up first. This rule is especially effective because my kids know that they are a trilliondy times more likely to get to do what they are begging to do, IF they have their stuff done. 3. Respect your family, respect your belongings, respect yourself. While this “rule” is more common sense, I felt it needed a place on the list. Below it are a few cartoons of what they all mean, so as not to confuse the little one. We take care of each other, which means we dont let other people decide what is best for our family. I saw this very rule in action yesterday as my oldest son came back from the next door neighbors house and told me that there was cursing on their tv, so they wanted to come home. I beemed with pride and we marched over to the neighbors together. The cursing was an HBO chris rock special left idly on the tv, we flipped it to spongebob and I sat drinking coffee with friends as our kids played quietly together. No judgement, just a simple appraisal of comfort levels and everyone is back to playing nice. 4. DO Ask Questions, DO NOT Whine. The mega rule, the rule to replace all rules, the bible of parenting. I posted this rule on a big white sheet of paper, I drew the words in boxy letters that reminded me of my art classes in high school. My middle son dutifully colored them in as he repeated the words under his breath. Now, whenever I hear the high pitched squeak of a whine escaping carelessly from the lips of someone intent on watching their movie, or doing their activity or wanting their favorite food… I simply point to the sign. I explain to them that asking questions is always okay, even if it is asking difficult questions from adults. My oldest will come to me (an agnostic athiest) and will frequently ask me questions about my beliefs in god. He challenges my answers and will often shake his head and walk away as if he knows something I do not. My middle son never ceases to stop asking questions, a trait that is adorabley infuriating, since I know it is my fault. He questions everything and for that I am eternally grateful, if not eternally exhausted. Questions are always okay, but whining is never cool. This all got me thinking, how do other parents deal with the constraints of expectations? If you accurately lay out what you expect from your kids, do they follow closely or do their attitudes reflect a constant need to rebel? My little anklebiters love the responsibility of expectations, they revel in the fact that they know that following these simple rules will make their life (and mine!!) so much easier and run so much more smoothly. With Rules finely laid out, they are free to be themselves and act out in ways that won’t violate my sense of peace and serenity. They really love it, and never hesitate to tell me so. For that reason alone, you can find my list of expectations taped to the fridge, and on the door to their bedroom.

© 2009, AntiSoccermom. All rights reserved to the original author unless stated otherwise.

I sat in the clinic’s waiting room clutching my belly. The pleasures of pregnancy were lost on my timid 17 year old mind and I hadn’t yet gripped the harsh reality of birthing a child. I was sweating. “You haven’t done this before, have you?” a homely looking woman had said, her hair a peppered grey and her maneurisms a stark testament to her lifestyle as a mom. She motioned to my belly, under the horizontally striped shirt that could very well have doubled as a tent to my former self. The lady smelled an odd mixture of coffee and granola, not uncommon for this part of colorado, and her front tooth was clearly set with a gold lining. Her fingers glittered with rings from her mothers jewelry box. She smiled kindly in my direction. “Don’t worry” she said in the way you tell someone with no power to ignore the people that determine their fate. “You will get it.” She says, hesitating for a moment as the nurse calls out yet another name, a chair was vacated and the waiting room quieted still. I explained to her that No, I hadn’t done “this” before and I was terrified. She grabbed my pale hand in hers and brought it to her face. She had something important to tell me and she began a dialogue that I have remembered for the last 8 years of parenting and one that I will retell in short here. “Parenting is the worst job you can have.” She stated, stroking the hair of a toddler that bore her likeness just within arms reach. She seemed genuine and I listened closely. “You will never find yourself more miserable then the next few years of your life” I sighed, the hand on my belly dropped to my side. I didn’t need to hear this, with a baby I hadn’t expected and hadn’t prepared for growing like a weed inside of my belly, I needed to think positively. The lady, whose email address I still clutch in those times when I need a clear head and a smart answer, told me one thing that I had never imagined. She shattered my dreams of birthing a child and while its yet covered in slimey goo, I would fall in love and devote my life to the beautiful angel. “I used to picture throwing my son against the wall.” She stated matter of fact. I cringe in terror. I had read the horror stories and listened to many talks from young struggling mothers, but I had never heard someone say that they actually wanted to hurt their baby. My stomach jumped, the boy inside of me protesting to the news.  She went on to tell me the dangers of postpardum depression and how to accurately gauge my emotions in order to prevent something terrible from happening. She hugged me when the nurse finally called her name, I smelled the scent of cheap shampoo in her hair, but as I reached down to shake the hand of her daughter in tow, I noticed her clean clothes, her broad, toothy grin and the way her hair was perfectly pulled into two tiny braids. Her mother loved her, it was evident. And it was clear that this little girl hadn’t once been thrown up against any wall. Years later, with a divorce and a tumultuous relationship under my belt and an unrealistic view of parenting my second son went into a short bout of colic. He screamed for days which quickly turned to weeks. I hit my breaking point one evening. With a toddler and an infant, completely alone in a trailer on the edge of town I found myself breaking into pieces. I looked back to that one day, where a stranger told me that this would come. I gripped the edge of sanity and I held tight. My son continued his wail. I picked him up from his crib, singing softly into his ear and feeling for a fever. I cradled him in my arms the way I had imagined I would do so when I was a child playing house. This time I was left with no daddy to help. It was me. Just me. This is the crossroads where the other mother had stood, the place she warned me about in her own interesting way. Clutching an infant I was sure hated me, standing with shaking knees and a sick stomach, I remembered the lady, smiling through the tears of motherhood. I remembered the story about how she was able to strike that delicate balance between nurture and emotion. I looked down to the angry little screamer in my arms for once feeling the weight of my powerlessness lift aside. I never went to the point where I thought I would hurt anyone, but I felt my aggravation raise and I did the only thing I knew to do. I picked the basinet out of the closet and put it into my master bedroom bathroom. It was small enough that it didn’t even fill the entire tub and I remember how it looked silly sitting in the middle like an island. I placed my screaming infant gently into the cradle. He didn’t stop. I backed out, watching him closely. I back through the door and shut it quietly, leaning against it to breath. His cries permeated the cheap trailer wood and I back further away. Within a minute my pulse steadied, though my head was buried firmly in my hands and I had been bawling too. The baby, who kept his scream up for hours had quieted too. I could hear him softly cooing in the bathtub. I pulled myself together, splashed cold water on my face and after fifteen minutes of deep breathing and stretching, I picked my son up out of the basinet, I elicited a grin from his chubby cheeks as I promised him that everything was going to be okay. I imagine that some mothers never go through a moment like this. That when their slippery little fetus arrives in their arms from shooting out of them like a bowling ball,  they simply fall in love. In reality Ive found the case to be much different. You struggle, you cry, you beg and plead. You worry, incessantly, and then you cry some more. Maybe not all mothers go through the same things that I have, but I do know that I am not alone. When the pressure cooker of parenting becomes unbearable, you have to find the release valve. Often times that will be a joke or sarcasm. Some times it will mean locking your baby in the bathroom and spending five minutes getting your head on straight. Devoting your life to a screaming and crapping entity with no gauge for pleasantries can have dire consequences if you dont prepare yourself. Setting the standard too high and refusing to release that valve and I bet you find yourself picturing some pretty horrible things. You aren’t a bad mother, so long as you can walk away. Whatever it means, I honestly believe that you can’t be a success without dealing with a little failure, first.

© 2009, AntiSoccermom. All rights reserved to the original author unless stated otherwise.