Jane says…

In the last few weeks, in response to various heinous mommy crimes I’ve committed, I have been the recipient of The Look. You know…The Look that is part raised eyebrow, part firm set of mouth, and part slight head tilt? The Look that says, “You are a bad parent.”

1) I let my elementary school aged son read all the Diary of A Wimpy Kid books. Apparently the books are so subversive that my 8 year old is now going to be forever corrupted. OR maybe it’s just superfantastic with me that the kid is reading of his own volition books that accurately depict the kind of frustration all kids feel because life seems arbitrary and out of their control. So either my kid is screwed from the word go because I don’t censor his reading or he’s learning to love reading for pleasure and is discovering one of the great joys of literature – learning about the universalities of the human condition. Besides, if he doesn’t get used to books about middle schoolers acting snotty, how’s he going to handle American Psycho, which I just ordered for him off Amazon?

2) Same kid: not in a booster seat. The law is 8 or 80 lbs. Neither of my kids is going to weigh 80 lbs. until college at the rate they’re going; they are skinny little buggers. Just like the knowledge of what the evolving power of a certain Pokemon may be or that the art teacher is actually a witch, the law governing when a kid is liberated from the confines of a car seat is popular playground conversation. That boy woke up the morning of his 8th birthday and the first words out of his mouth were, “I don’t have to sit in a car seat anymore!!!!” And I totally get that. It’s a rite of passage. Less significant than, say, a bar mitzvah or first misdemeanor arrest, but it counts. Anyway, I got the full-on Look for that one. As though I were riding around town on a Ducati with the kid balancing on the handlebars all the time because really in actuality I’ve only done that three or four times. Plus. If you’re reading this and you are over 22? Chances are you didn’t sit in a car seat for most of your childhood and yet, you seem to be fine.
hellicopter-parents

3) My daughter eats one fruit or vegetable a day. And sometimes that “fruit” comes in the form of a roll up. “If you just serve it to her and don’t give her anything else until she eats it, eventually she’ll get hungry enough and then she’ll discover she likes it.” Nice try, Mommy Nazi. You know not whereof you speak. For one thing, my daughter would starve herself just to give you the metaphorical finger if you tried to make her eat anything she didn’t want to. For another thing, if you’d like to come live in my house during her adolescence after I’ve allowed my darling, perfectionist, control-freak, genius monkeychild to turn food into a battleground, be my guest. I’m picking my fights, and this isn’t one of them. Besides, she might only weigh 41 lbs, but dollars to donuts (because, hell, she’ll eat those – unless they have jelly in them because jelly is fruit-like) my 6 year old could hold her own in a fair fight with Dwayne the Rock Johnson. Girlfriend is fierce.

4) My husband and I went for a run and left them home alone. This one got me the full two eyebrows up and mouth formed into an “O” whilst air was sucked in audibly. That’s right. I left them home alone for half an hour. Oh. My. God. And when I think of all those times that child predators and violent rapist Jehovah’s Witnesses came to the house and tried to get in and maul my children only to be stopped by me at the door saying, “Sorry! Mommy’s here! Go away, please!” it’s a miracle they survived the experience. Get a grip, people, would you? They know the cell phone number (and for the love of god they called me three times in that half hour span mostly to bitch about the fact that they were fighting over the remote) and aren’t incapacitated or clueless enough not to get to the neighbors if they needed anything that very moment.

5) And speaking of cellphones…I dropped one of the anklebiters off for a playdate the other day and the mother came chasing after me as I backed out of the driveway, “Wait! Wait! I need your cellphone number in case of emergency! And you didn’t tell me if she had any food allergies!” It’s a miracle that the entire adult population in the world today made it past age 11. Our parents didn’t have cellphones, yet miraculously, adults responsible for our care when we were away from home managed to not kill us without the ability to reach out and touch someone. And the food allergy thing is getting out of control. If my kid had a fatal allergy to something, do you think I might have forgotten to mention it? Or even, that I might have taught my little sweetpea not to eat the DeathFood? I got a notice from kindergarten at this year telling me that a kid in the class was allergic to, I shit you not, snow peas and shitake mushrooms, so I shouldn’t send those things in for snack. Damn it! I was totally planning on sending in snowpea and shitake mushroom smoothies laced with vodka and Xanax for my daughter every day.

6) Next year, my third grade son and my first grade daughter will be walking home from school. On their own. I got The Look for this plan, too. Because do I not know?? Am I not aware??? Walking home from school with crosswalks, crossing guards, and the busiest of busybody neighbors and parents all around them is akin to shooting them each out of a cannon over shark infested waters. I walked to and from school, with the neighbor kids, starting in first grade. And every day after that until my parents finally tired of my shenanigans and sent me off to boarding school where god only knows I did far more dangerous stuff than cross the street without someone holding my hand.

Here’s what I do worry about: the stuff that is actually dangerous, like head injuries from not wearing a helmet while biking, not knowing how to swim, and trying to pull a strange dog’s tail. Children are no more in danger of abduction or predation now than they were 20 and 30 years ago. Violent crime in this country is on the decline. My daughter will not get scurvy. If my kid hurts herself or gets sick during a playdate, I’m sure that the adult supervising her will figure out that a phone call to information will reveal magical information like my home phone number or, barring that, a doctor’s phone number, or perish the thought, 911. If I don’t have faith that my kids can learn how to walk 1/3 mile in broad daylight down the sidewalk from school to home, how on earth do I expect them to learn the really important stuff, like not to mix liquor and beer. Oh lighten up…you know what I mean.

…but Dan thinks…

Before I get into the topic at hand, I want to make sure a few things are made clear to our audience. First and foremost, I don’t want some of the things Jane said above to be interpreted as a disengaged parent rationalizing her sometimes “hands off” style. Jane is very handsy. I mean, if you check here and here and even here (and even the crutches to Haiti thing she helped her kids do, that she never mentions to anyone unless she has to), it’s clear that she’s engaged.

She’s not nibbling on Ho-hos, wearing a wife-beater, watching Springer. For better or worse, there needs to be no mistake – her parenting choices were not the result of the search for a path of least resistance. They were conscious choices.

Jane and I, just in the course of the many phone conversations we’ve had, have talked about our kids loads of times. She thinks I’m too protective, but she stops short of calling me a helicopter parent.

And she’s taken my breath away with the stories she’s recounted for me of the freedoms she gives her kids. The examples she gave above are among the many I’m aware of, and are perfect for this discussion.

Leaving your children home alone. Our house is so hard to find that the only trick-or-treater we’ve EVER had at our house in six years was an employee of mine bringing over his daughter at the last minute. People can’t find us when they WANT to find us. If we left our kids alone, doors open, invitations at the end of the driveway for criminals to stop over, nothing would happen. But we still don’t leave them alone.

It’s not the criminals I’m afraid of. How many of you have young children that choke on their food with any regularity? Do your kids know how to do the Heimlich maneuver? Even if Jane’s kids knew it, they’re tiny. They could probably Heimlich a photograph of a child, but not a living, breathing one. So if Jane’s out on a run and one of the kids is at home, choking? Nobody gets there in time to prevent brain death. Apply the same logic to stairs. Swingsets. Household chemicals. Gasoline. Power tools.

I won’t even address the food, because I know there’s no convincing Jane. Here’s what I know – It takes SuperNanny half an hour, once a week to get someone’s kids eating the right foods and behaving. And she pronounces her th’s like f’s. It can’t be fhat hard.

Jane’s right about car seats. All of the kids who didn’t die in car accidents and grew up to be healthy adults and are reading this blog are probably thinking – what’s the big deal? Well? 6,000 kids die every year in traffic accidents. Seat belts didn’t used to be mandatory years ago, either. Those rules and laws aren’t put in place to make height-challenged kids feel like shit, they’re there because there’s empirical evidence that they save lives. Jane is risking safety for what she hopes is a future reward of independence or confidence (that is tied to a seat in a car, which is not unlike wearing the hot jeans or the cool kicks, but that’s another discussion about esteem for another time).

Jane makes her kids wear dorky helmets while skiing. Who dies skiing, other than that one famous chick and Sonny Bono? Being safe in a car, where 6,000 kids a year lose their lives, seems valid enough a reason to make the kid endure another year of a booster chair.

Kill, Kill, Kill!Last week I took the younger of our two dogs in to be euthanized. We had about a day or so to prepare our children. We didn’t sugarcoat. We didn’t say he was going to take a nap. Or be delivered to a place where he could run with other dogs. We said the word: die. Mortality is pretty heavy, especially for a little kid. I won’t pretend to know anything about Wimpy and his books that Jane’s son is reading. American Psycho? I don’t know that I’d choose it for my kids, at that age, but if he’s mature enough to handle it and not end up bringing artwork like this home from school, then I don’t see the harm. It’s far less intrusive on the psyche of a child than the death of a family member, furry or otherwise.

Ultimately, I think parenting is an endless string of gambles. Measurements of risk versus reward. The media with it’s sensational bent makes it hard for people like me to decipher where the real risks are, and the rewards can be so nebulous and distant from today’s in-the-moment parenting decision that I can see how it might cloud my judgment, opting for safety right now (don’t climb the big kid monkey bars), possibly at the expense of some additonal fraction of self-confidence later (don’t march into the boss’s office and demand a raise).

I think Jane takes some unnecessary risks. I’m sure she thinks I take unnecessary precautions. The problem is, we won’t know who was right for another 15 years.