What is this bad parent award everyone's talking about these days? I mean aren't we punishing ourselves enough for being terrible parents when, the truth really is, we're doing our best? Yeah, probably, but every now and then, even we (the bad parents) need some recognition for all our hard work, I guess. Unlike some, though, I have not won this week's bad parent award for leaving a sweet biscuit, or a piece of cake, in little madam's lunch box at kinder; although I definitely contemplated this, and would have, by now, if another "bad parent" didn't beat me to the punch and receive the, "no sweet biscuits, please" note from the kinder teacher. Thanks to you (and no, I'm not mentioning any names this time), I've managed (on this occasion, anyway) to avoid the guilt that's, no doubt, associated with this ho-hum, new-age, healthy approach to raising children we're all supposed to have adopted.
But, unlike you (the giver of sweet biscuits, and a piece of cake) I've taken out this week's bad parent award for...are you ready? Losing my temper. Ah yes. The joys of raising a threenager (this is a term I heard for the first time the other day, and I've been dying to use it because I think it's spot on, don't you?). A threenager (aka, little madam) who insists on making it her mission to throw every single punishment I've dared to dish out to her, straight back into my face. Punishments such as the use of time out - which in our house involves little madam being sent to her room - to give her time to calm down just a tad so I can begin to reason with her over the latest cause of her occasional misbehaviour. This punishment (or perhaps disciplinary tactic is a better term), I've only started resorting to fairly recently because little madam (although not always a perfectly behaved child....she is human, after all, and she has my genes, let us not forget), up until not that long ago (perhaps the dreaded threenage years are when it all began) has been a pretty well-behaved kid, and quite easy to distract. And, although for the most part, she's still a pretty well-behaved little lass, there have been times lately where I've needed to try a different strategy (different to distraction, that is) to deal with some of her rather frustrating (and quite normal, I'm assured) three-year-old behaviour. So began, in our house, the beginning of time-out.
Unfortunately - although the use of it has done its bit to diffuse some of the ridiculously unnecessary temper tantrums, and is terrific at allowing little madam to bring her rather over-zealous emotions down to the level of normal again - time-out has also been used as ammunition in little madam's rather growing desire to make me feel nothing more than a terrible, torturing parent. An example of this occurred only this morning, when I took little madam and little man to Playgroup. It was towards the end of the morning, after story-time, when a suggestion was made that the box of musical instruments make an appearance to aid in the final ritual of the session: the dreaded sing-along. Actually, the sing-along's not really that bad because there's usually a guy playing guitar, but unfortunately, he was absent on this occasion.
Anyhow. My frustration level reached a peak when little madam, who I'd only just praised a couple of minutes earlier for being a, "terrific sharer" (you see, I'd seen her hand a doll over to one of her friends, after her friend had asked for a hold, and felt that it warranted some recognition), refused to hand-over her musical instrument to the same friend, when she was asked (a few minutes after the start of her turn with this particular instrument) to do a swap.
After trying to negotiate with little madam, and assuring her that she'd get another turn of the instrument, she continued to hold her ground. And eventually, I was forced to tell her that if she wasn't going to share, we'd need to leave (it was only two-minutes till the end of Playgroup, anyway, so not that great-a-deal). I guess she sensed my annoyance, because she immediately started crying then, at the top of her lungs, began saying repeatedly, "I don't want to go to my room!" Can you please tell me when, in the above scenario, I told her she'd be going to her room? That's right! I didn't! But once again - as this was by no means NOT the first time she's used the same words in front of a crowd - little madam had chosen the punishment (or disciplinary tactic) I used the most, to try and make everyone around aware of what a terrible mother I am; a terrible mother who is responsible for frequently locking little madam in her room. Well, that's certainly how it sounded to me. And by the way, just for the record, I can almost count the number of times on one hand I've actually used time-out on little madam, so it's really not a frequent occurrence in our house; certainly not frequent enough to warrant her rather loud (and embarrassing at the time) plea.
Of course, I followed through with my intention. We left. But, it wasn't until I was securing her seatbelt, in a rather forceful manner, a few minutes later, that I became eligible for my award. As by the time we'd reached the car, and I'd settled little man into his seat (and, in the meantime, had to listen to little madam's near-constant wailing and the, "I don't want to go to my room", line another one-hundred times or so) I was more-than-a-little flustered. So as I did up little madam's seatbelt, rather quickly and firmly, she shouted, "DON'T BE ROUGH WITH ME!" I'll be honest. I was furious, at the time. Furious enough to have been a little, "rough", with her if this was, at all, my style. Although, to clear something up, I've never resorted to smacking, or using any form of force, in the past, and I'm fairly certain, by now, I never will.
Unfortunately, though, I realised, as I made my way round to my side of the car again and climbed in, I was being watched. And the observer - who then decided to make his presence known by turning on his car and headlights (it was day-time, too, mind you) - who had no doubt heard loud and clear little madam's "DON'T BE ROUGH WITH ME!" plea, decided to glare at me through his windscreen.
Oh the joys of raising children. As I drove home, and continued to endure little madam's nonsense from the back seat - which turned into a ridiculous level of noise when she realised I'd begun to ignore her (well, the best that anyone can ignore a screaming, shouting three-year-old) - I could almost picture myself, dressed in Versace, up on that stage, giving my speech, after accepting my bad parent award. "I'd especially like to thank you...the man in the black car...for glaring at me and making me feel like a terrible mother!" I bet he'd never had the pleasure of dealing with a threenager!
Thanks, little madam, for giving me the opportunity, once again, to win the bad parent award. I also really appreciate being able to refer to you as a threenager! Hahah! Love you!
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