Parenting in 2014

I marvel at parents today.  They just "get it" so much easier than we did.  Here's an example:

I was in my daughter Jessica's kitchen watching my two-year-old grandson Grayson eating a carrot. He leaned over and got some dip, took a bite of carrot, then chewed.  He chewed and chewed and chewed and then -- when he was good and ready -- he spat the finely chewed carrot out.  Then he took another  carrot, got some dip, took another bite and repeated the entire sequence.  A little mound of chewed carrot was forming on the table in front of him.

Spit.

Dip.

Chew.

Grayson was oblivious to me and so as I watched and laughed (inside), the carrot "eating" continued. Soon my daughter passed through the kitchen, glanced swiftly at her son and his carrot mound and said, "If you want to eat the dip, just use a spoon."

I rest my case.

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Milk

Growing up, I was a feisty, stubborn little thing and I hated milk.  HATED!
My folks ascribed to the "clean plate" school of parenting (and that included liquids) which is how I ended up sitting alone at the dinner table one evening while my mother cleaned the kitchen.

I knew that children were starving in China but couldn't connect how my drinking this milk could help them.  Finally, I snapped.  When Mom had her back turned, I poured the milk into the trash can which was lined with a brown paper bag.

 "My milk's gone."

"You may be excused."

I went off to play while my mother finished up the dishes.  When she lifted the brown paper sack out of the wastebasket to take it outside to the garbage, the bottom fell out. 

My parents also believed in corporal punishment, so I got spanked.  I secretly felt things worked out well for me though - because nobody thought to pour me another glass of milk.

Random thoughts

When I woke up this morning, my first thought was, "Rocky road ice cream sounds good."  Is it any wonder I have a weight problem?  Connect the dots here, Chris.  Connect the dots.

My next two thoughts were, "I could buy some unfinished bookshelves and paint them to match our room" followed closely by "When I go for my walk, I should collect some beautiful maple leaves, dip them in wax and make a stunning fall table arrangement out of them."

Who do I think I am, Martha Stewart?

I need to exercise a little tough love here, metaphorically slapping myself back onto the straight and narrow.  Scare myself silly, perhaps.  When I was shopping last Thursday, I picked up a bra that was a size 36H. That memory alone ought to be frightening enough to make me eat nothing but oatmeal and Melba toast for a season or two.

The highway of my life is littered with half-finished craft projects.  If I'd invested the money I've spent on those supplies, I could be wintering in Aruba.  I don't want to kick Creativity in the teeth, but I need to re-channel my urges from big, wild projects that have limited potential of success to activities with a higher likelihood of achieving full fruition. 

How about just eating an egg for breakfast then digging out my knitting needles and whipping up a quick dishcloth?  Maybe that would squelch these bizarre creative urges I'm feeling.  On second thought, an omelet sounds good - and a little hat with a huge pom pom on top would be easy enough. A fruit salad would be yummy, too - and I remember the cute pattern I ran across for  hand-knitted socks. Knocking out a couple pair of them would be satisfying.  Sliced avocados on the side and perhaps a cable knit sweater for Brody?

 Now I hear a little voice in my head saying, "Chris.  You are not Sigmund Freud.  What makes you think you are qualified to analyze your thoughts?  You are not a Victoria's Secret model-in-training either.  Eat the egg, then have the Rocky road ice cream and get on with your day!"

All parents know that scare tactics are ineffective and also that compromises can be so satisfying! What about painting unfinished bookshelves?  That thought must have migrated from Jerry's side of the bed to mine by accident because it belongs in his brain, not mine.  I've decided to skip the goofy leaf idea too.  Either creativity withers in the cold, hard light of day or dipping things in hot wax has disaster written all over it - you can ponder that one for yourself.

It's never wise for me to give too much weight to my random thoughts. By the way, does anybody know if you can eat ornamental kale?

What's enough?

Now that I'm "retired" from active mothering, occasionally I regret not having a career.  Or even a job.  It's not that I wouldn't enjoy being gainfully employed, it's simply that no one has called and graciously invited me to walk through their door and enter the working world.


Yesterday as I was starting my morning walk, I stopped to help my neighbor put some stair treads in his truck.  We got to talking about what's wrong with government, why we don't have cable tv, how we still don't know what we want to be when we grow up and wound up discussing ways to make a positive impact on our children.


As I was walking away, the thought struck me:  Could it be possible that I'm right where I'm meant to be, doing what I'm supposed to be doing? 


Maybe helping your neighbor really is enough.