The Devil Made Me Do It

Eirinn, being a Catholic school kid, has been told by her teacher that when we do bad things, it’s not us doing them, but the devil.  Satan-atan-atan.  Being a supportive mother in all things, including their semi-religious upbringing, I can get behind this theory.  Especially if it gives me an excuse to do bad things.  “It wasn’t me; it was that asshole, Satan.  Jerk gets everything blamed on me.  I’m innocent of all charges relating to this crime.  Talk to Satan.  He’s the one who’s got some explaining to do.”

Every once in a while, I’ll catch Eirinn with a tear in her eye after she’s been scolded for some misdeed.  “What’s wrong?” I’ll ask.  “It wasn’t me, mom.  It was the devil.”  Now, my kids are master manipulators, so don’t think for one second I’m not completely on to her deal.  But still…  If she’s committed enough to this concept to produce real tears and everything, I’ll hear her out. 

However, this morning I decided to elaborate on her teacher’s version.  Sure, I can support “the devil made me do it” … to an extent.  There’s just that pesky free will that puts a wrench in the thing.  If we’re Team God, then we acknowledge that He gave us free will; the ability to choose what we do and say.  Our behaviour is our own doing.  Sure, the devil may sit on our shoulders and whisper sweet nothings about pinching our sister or making a Barbie accessory hurricane or taking a VERY inappropriate tone with our parents, but our free will allows us to decide whether or not to act upon these thoughts.  The devil can be very loud and very convincing; with free will, we have the ability to be good people because we can choose to ignore what that asshole says.

Eirinn thought free will was a stupid idea.  Unaccountability sounded much more appealing to her.  Take this morning, for example.  She most certainly did NOT tell me within earshot of her sister that she wishes Avery would just shut up already because she didn’t want to hear her talk.  She would NEVER do such a thing.  It was Satan.  So obviously it’s not HER who should be getting in big trouble because SHE didn’t do it.  Put Satan into time out.

Catholic school is awesome.


Parents: Own Your Children’s Behaviour

I always say how bullied I am, but no one listens, what do I have to do so people will listen to me?

- Jamey Rodemeyer’s final post to Tumblr

September 9, 2011

Jamey Rodemeyer, aged 14, killed himself this weekend.  At 14, Jamey was just a boy.  He had endured years of bullying, at school and online.

We, as parents, are responsible for our children.  We are responsible for feeding them and sending them to school and making sure they’re healthy and clean.  We are responsible for loving them and teaching them how to love others.  We must treat them with respect and teach them to treat others with respect.  We can not control their behaviour, but we can, must, teach them what is right and what is absolutely unacceptable.  We must own this responsibility.

We can try to blame the school for not stepping in.  We can get angry with “the system” and wax furiously about the evils of the internet.  We can yell and scream and bang away on our keyboards about who should have done something to prevent this and where the fault lies and how we would have done things differently.  How we’re right and they’re wrong because everything is a contest to see who can curse louder and point fingers more ferociously.

But the truth of the matter is that it is no one’s fault as much as it is everyone’s fault.  It’s the fault of the bullies for being dicks.  They’re assholes now and they’re going to grow up to be adult assholes who raise asshole children who will, in turn, be asshole bullies.  It’s the fault of the school for being too passive with bullies.  For blaming the bullied, suggesting, even if the suggestion were simply implied, that if the bullied weren’t so ‘different’ that the bullies wouldn’t have ammo.  It’s the fault of the entire student body for not standing up and deeming that behaviour unacceptable.  For not accepting every single person for who they are.

It’s my turn to furrow my brow and point my finger.  Whose fault is bullying?  I blame the bully’s parents.  Like I said, we must own our responsibility of raising kind, considerate, compassionate children.  We must take this responsibility as seriously as we do feeding and clothing and sending them to school.  Treating other children cruelly should not, under any circumstance, be tolerated.  We can’t blame the other child.  If our child is acting like a prick, we have to own that and deal with it ourselves.  Nip that shit in the bud before someone gets more than just a little hurt.

Last year, Eirinn experienced a very, very minor instance of bullying.  I won’t get into any detail in case anything triggers an idea of who the offending child may be, but Eirinn came home one day and, through a series of questions I asked her, told us about an on-going situation.  I sat her down and explained that even if she wasn’t being hurt and actually wasn’t even aware that she was, in fact, being bullied, that she shouldn’t put up with it.  I told her to tell her teacher if it happened again.  I told her what to say to the girl if and when it happened again.  I told her that no matter what, she should tell me when something like this happens.  But finally, and emphatically, I told her that what this little girl was doing was wrong and that she was, under no circumstance whatsoever, allowed to behave like this girl was behaving.  That it was unacceptable.  That we are to treat people the way we would like to be treated.

…treat people the way we would like to be treated…

It’s a Six Degrees Of Separation type thing we have between us as parents and the way our children behave.  Some things we can be directly creditted for.  If we cuss in front of them and they, in turn, use the same foul language?  Our fault.  Blaming peers or movies or video games is ridiculous.  Own that.  If they hang out with other kids who get into trouble, or are themselves the instigator of trouble (heaven forbid!  not MY child!), it’s our fault for somewhere down the road making them think it’s ok or fun to behave that way, or perhaps we’ve done something to make them want to rebel against what we thought we were teaching them.  Or perhaps they see the way we ourselves act and mimic that.  Or they see the way we behave towards them.

If we bully our children, they will bully each other.

Yes, there is such a thing as free will and our children never grow up to be exact replicas of the people we’d hoped or dreamed they’d be.  Sometimes they’re more and better and exceed our wildest expectations.  Other times they veer off course somewhere and choose B instead of A.  This is why parenting is the most difficult job in the world.  When the going gets tough, we then must dig in and work harder or give up altogether.  We must decide to either excel or fail at parenting.

There is always someone to blame when a child dies, especially one who commits suicide, but the fact of the matter is we all need to treat each other better.  We need to cure the illness, not treat the symptoms.  We need to stop thinking it’s ok to call each other names.  The old adage “sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me” is antiquated and a powder puff fairy tale.  Unfortunately, names can and do hurt.  They hurt to the bone and they don’t fade like scars and bruises.  If our children have grown up thinking calling their peers names in order to make them feel bad is funny or ok, we need to look at ourselves and ask what did we do.  Where did we go wrong?

Where did we go wrong?

I just want to say goodbye,

Disappear with no one knowing. I don’t wanna live this lie, smiling to the world unknowing. I don’t want you to try, you’ve done enough to keep me going…

I’ll be fine, I’ll be fine, I’ll be fine for the very last time.

source


Winning takes talent

“Good morning!“  I sing as I open the door to the nursery, which is in dire need of being transformed into a Big Girl room.  But she’s still so little.  A while longer as my baby won’t hurt anyone.

“Morning mommy.  I didn’t peed!”  She’s so proud of herself when she doesn’t soak the bed.  She’s still in Pull Ups over night, but as often as she goes the night without peeing, she fills them to overflowing.

“Good girl!  We still need to get dressed today.”

“No.”

“Yes.  We wear clothes during the day and save your footie pajamas for night time.  You don’t want to wear them out, do you?”

“No.”  The tears have begun.

“Then let’s get dressed.”

“No.  Jammies.”  Now tears and sobs.

No, clothes.”

“Jammies.”  Tears, sobs, and wails.  Her pajamas are her most valued possession.  While potty training, we used her jammies as a reward.  She could wear them during the day as long as she didn’t pee in her underwear.  She kept her underwear dry from day one because she didn’t want to get her precious jammies wet. 

THIS WAS A TERRIBLE, NO GOOD, VERY BAD IDEA.  Sure, it helped us train her instantly, but it’s ruined her.  She now wants to wear them all day, every day, long after potty training is over.  Violently wants to wear them all day, every day. 

She’s scowling at me now.  Giving me her “angry face”, as she calls it.

It’s at this point that I know this isn’t going to be easy.  See, I’m raising two very independent, stubborn, bull-headed girls.  Very.  They’re going to be forces to reckon with when they get older.  So I lift her out of her crib and set her on the floor.

“Let’s get your underwear on.”

“NO.”

“Avery Quinn.  We’re getting you dressed.”

I lay her on the floor.  She flops over.  I flip her onto her back.  She violently flops over.  By now the volume of the screeching coming from her foaming face hole has hit about 11.

Now, here’s where my martial arts training* comes in handy.  I lay her out in a crucifix, with her legs between mine, my legs pinning her arms to the ground, gently but firmly.  I am lucky that I’m not a guy because her kicking legs narrowly miss the spot where valuable junk would be.  I can get her pajamas off this way, but getting the clothes on will prove more difficult.

“Avery, calm down.  I’m just getting you dressed.”

“NOOOOOOAAAAHHHGGAAAAHRRRRRRAAAAAAWWWWWRRRRR!!!11!”

“Avery!  Calm your nerves!”

::kick, kick, kick::

“AVERY QUINN, SANTA’S WATCHING YOU.”

Nothing!  Can you believe it?  I threaten SANTA and she DIDN’T stop dead in pure terror!  Clearly this is a classic case of demon possession.

Again, I utilize my MMA skills* and get her into side control.  One leg over her torso, preventing her from turning, one leg under her legs to give me access so I can put on her pants and socks.  ::kick, kick, kick::

50% success!  Now for the top half.  I sit her up, put one of my legs over her legs, the other behind her back and cross them around her.  This props her upright and prevents her from standing up.  Shirt’s on.

I stand her up.

“Now, freakazoid, was that so bad?”

The tears have stopped.  The room is silent.  She collapses into my arms in an exhausted, defeated, pile of snuggles.

“I sorry, mommy.”

It’s ok.  It’s always ok.  She’s my baby, possessed by the devil or not.

***

* Yeah, I have no martial arts training.  I watch MMA, which is all the training you need when battling a 2 year old ball of anger.


Ahh! Kidzeerah!

We’d like to thank those who have travelled…” 

RWAAAAAAAW 

“…great distances to be with us today…” 

GAAAAAAAAHHHH 

“…We can’t tell you how honoured we are…”

BAAAAAAAAAAWWWW

“…that you made the long trip…”

GRRRRRRRR

“…from overseas…”

AAAAARRRRRRGGGGG

“…You’ve made today even more special…”

ROOOOOOAAAARRRR

“…than we could have ever imagined…”

AH AH AH AH AAAAAAHHHH AH AH!!!

***

Choose your own adventure.  When invited to a wedding, you could either a) bring along your 2 year old who, conveniently, chooses that day to go full-on monster.  Literally.  “I’m a monster.”  Or b) leave her at home. 

Now, sure, said 2 year old was generally well behaved, save for her complete conversion to a new, mystical species.  She remained in her seat, was happy and smiley, didn’t so much as complain once.  But…she was a monster.  Loud and proud.  So perhaps I could over look this small wrench for just a couple of hours so that she can participate in the festivities.  She was invited specifically, after all.

However, when you’re a direct relation to the bride, you tend to sit near the front.  Like, parents’ table, near the front.  And near the front is within shouting (or growling) distance from the podium.  The microphone-equipped podium.  The voice (or roar)-enhancing microphone-equipped podium.  And you’re also sitting directly adjacent to where the videographer tends to stand.   The videographer who is capturing every little moment to be treasured forever by the bride and groom as a reminder of the happiest day of their lives.

Set to the Gozilla soundtrack.

That was 3 hours of speeches in between courses of dinner, 3 hours of monster-child, who naturally has the loudest voice I’ve ever heard, 3 hours of me trying, fruitlessly, to silence, or at least quiet, the kid, and 3 hours of me dying of mortification.

All I could do was apologize.  They forgive me now, but just wait until their video comes in.  They may be changing their tune.


I love my children. I love my children. I love my children.

So I have these two kids.  Brilliant, gorgeous, hilarious kids. 

One of them just turned four and the other is just over a year and a half.  The older one is daytime-potty trained.  The little one can do a fantastic Jack Nicholson impression

You’ve never seen blue eyes like these two have – one gray-blue the colour of much-loved blue jeans, the other liquid blue the colour of a shallow lake. 

They’ll make you laugh when you least expect it and amaze you when you don’t see it coming.

The taller one is a fantastic ballerina, when she can manage not to fall.  The shorty can rock a hip hop beat like nobody’s business.

They’ll crush your heart with sweetness – hugs and kisses and ‘I love you’s’ all day.

They’re the greatest thing that could ever happen to you.  You’d be lucky to spend even one day with them.

Do you want them?

‘Cause I’ll cut you a deal.  Two for the price of one?  What’s the going rate for kids these days?  I’ll give you a twofer and throw in a slightly used dog.

Because the big one?  Won’t stop crying, screaming hysterically, really, about everything and anything.  It’s actually getting kind of funny, but not quite, so do you want her?

And the small one?  Has decided spitting in mommy’s face is the most entertaining thing ever.  And also enjoys headbutting said mother in the teeth.  The very expensive, purchased teeth.  You can have her.

And the first born turned 4 on the weekend, on paper, but she’s more like 15 and I don’t like it.  Backtalk, eye-rolling, hands-on-hips attitude.  Take her.  Please.

And the second born wants to do everything herself.  “Avery DO IT.”  She wants to get herself dressed, despite her inability to get herself dressed.  She wants to change her own diaper, poopy diapers, despite not realizing how utterly disgusting poop on her hands really is.  I’ll pay you cash money to remove her from my house.

Noooo, not really.  I love my children (I love my children, I love my children, I love my children).  I miss them when I’m away for even a couple of hours.  I would die without them.  They are my light and my heart and my life.

But, seriously, kids.  Smarten.  The eff.  Up.  Or I’ll sublet your rooms to questionable exchange students and leave you out on the streets with nothing but a change of clothes and a bag of fishy crackers and not bat an eye.  Because I can.

I BROUGHT YOU INTO THIS WORLD; I CAN TAKE YOU OUT OF IT.  Or something.

Just stop being so mean to your mommy.  You’re starting to hurt my feelings.