Who's the Boss?

I recently read an article about the generation we're raising. In it, the author cites examples of how we are raising a society of self-important, privileged "douchebags" (his word). Whenever I read an article like this, whether it's tongue-in-cheek or not, I perform a little bit of introspection. As a result, I played some serious defense when I got home with Peanut that night...

My Director came home from work a little earlier than usual. I had just started dinner. (Normally, dinner is ready when she walks through the door.) It was bath night, and she proposed taking a bath before dinner. I was all for it. Get the bath, the bane of our parental existence, out of the way. Peanut, however, wanted nothing to do with this plan.

She's a creature of habit, and our habit is bath after dinner. She likes to come home and watch some television to unwind after school. And since it occupies her while I cook and she's been active and learning all day, I'm fine with it.

She cried, whined, and refused to negotiate. With that article fresh in my mind I told my wife she can't back down. She had to follow through and give the Peanut a bath right then.... before dinner.

She did follow through. I heard nothing but crying from the point they went upstairs to the point where I was able to put everything on simmer and go upstairs to offer whatever logistical and moral support possible. I entered the bathroom to find Peanut in the bath, crying... but no tears. She was just doing it to prove a point. What point that was, I have no idea.

I tried reasoning with her. "Sweetie, you like to have fun in the bath," I reminded her. "But you aren't because you're crying. If you stop crying you can just have fun." Didn't matter. She eventually calmed down... after the bath.

Dinner and the rest of the evening went fine. Until it was time for bed. Since we let her watch the rest of her movie after dinner, we told her the only part of the bedtime ritual we would do is read a book. A short book. She wanted to "read" it to us. Fine.

First My Director set the ground rules: "It has to be quick and you have to be nice." Well, no such luck. She tends to be a bossy procrastinator when we allow her to "read" to us. Telling us to be quiet. Refusing to accept our help. Annoying.

That was the final straw. She was being mean and we weren't going to stand for it. We kissed her goodnight and closed the door, with her crying on the other side.

And that was that. We didn't go back in. I think we made the right call in both instances. I also think making tough decisions that might make you feel lousy is an important part of ensuring you don't raise a little d-bag of your own. 

What do you think? Did we make the right call?

This post first appeared on My Husband Ate All My Ice Cream on November 1, 2011, in response to the article I linked above and a post she wrote about every child in a group receiving "participation" ribbons in classes and contests. 

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Bath Tub Time Machine

"If your kids are giving you a headache, follow the directions on the aspirin bottle. Especially the part that says 'keep away from children.'" ~Susan Savannah

It seems most parents love bath time. "It's so cute," they say. "It's so fun," they say.

It's so NOT, I say.

A few nights ago, my wife came home from work and offered to give our daughter a shower before dinner. I'm the chef in the family, so occasionally this is my reward. While I can't speak to exactly what happened upstairs, I can say the end result was a lot of crying from my daughter and shouting from my wife. And let me be clear: my wife is not a shouter. She's the patient one, the calm one. So something must have gone terribly wrong.

What happened was that our daughter failed to listen to anything, and the whole situation spiraled out of control to the point that my wife came downstairs by herself and said we should start dinner without our daughter because she was still upstairs crying... wet and naked.

Maybe we're in the minority, but bath time is the eating your Brussels sprouts of parenthood. It's another chore. More chaos to an already chaotic day.

And I have to admit, on most bath nights, I'll conveniently 'forget' to walk the dog before dinner. Yes... I would rather pick up my dog's feces than bathe my daughter. True story. When Luna and I return, the bath is already underway.

Manipulative? No.

Shrewd? Yes (and let's not forget modest).

Why do I feel this way about what so many consider a warm and delightful ritual of childhood?

If only it were this easy

The devil, as it turns out, is in negotiating the details. When we're going to take a bath. If we're going to take a bath (she tries to make this a negotiation but it never is). How long we're going to stay in the bath. Yeah... she fights getting into the bath, then she fights getting out.

And then there are some nights - I kid you not - when she doesn't want to get her hair wet. In the bath. Seriously. She's a miracle.

I think it's our fault. We exude annoyance on bath nights. And that's only three or four times a week. As a result, she doesn't want to do it either.

So now we do showers a lot. They get the job done... and in a fraction of the time.

We actually sell her on the shower too. We have to do that because you know, your hair is definitely getting wet early and often in a shower. How do we convince her of the benefits of showering? We tell her we'll have more time to play if she opts for it.

Those were the days

Manipulative? No.

Shrewd? Yes.

Sure, there was a time when bathing my daughter was enjoyable. Memorable... for good reasons. It was also before she spoke, expressed opinions, or had full control of her limbs.

But a shower is a much better alternative than a straight jacket.

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Say Hello to My Little Friend

"Like all the best families, we have our share of eccentricities, of impetuous and wayward youngsters and of family disagreements." - Elizabeth II

**TMI WARNING. A LOT OF IT. MENTAL IMAGES CANNOT BE AVOIDED. CONSIDER YOURSELF WARNED.**

Some way or another, we each endure our awkward stage. My wife had her braces, her ridiculously enormous glasses, and was developing breasts. I had a mullet, a gut, and coincidentally, was also developing breasts.

During these tough, formative times your parents are quick to point out how beautiful you are, that you'll grow out of it, that it's just "baby fat." But they don't warn you about another awkward stage to come a lot further down the line. Why would they, really? They're saving us from the dread. They're also secretly looking forward to it. I'm talking about the unavoidable subjects that will most assuredly arise during parenthood.

We recently had our first instance...

There's really no other way put this, so here goes: my daughter is a little too obsessed with my pen!s for my liking. Yes, writing that was just as uncomfortable for me as reading it probably was for you.

Let me try to make a long story short.

When we go upstairs to put on her pajamas, I do the same. So she sees me naked. At this point, I don't know if I'm more surprised that you're still reading or that I'm still writing.

One day the inevitable came: "What's that, daddy?" She was pointing and smiling innocently at, appropriately enough, my babymaker. What I wanted to say was, "That's where you came from." But with a straight face, and with as little apprehension in my voice as possible, I answered, "That's daddy's pen!s."

(Oh my GOD I just wrote 'pen!s' again.)

Now, by no means do I invite these situations. But in the natural course of the routine, she occasionally sees me naked. Naturally, she's curious. And, naturally, I have no idea if I am positively informing her and making her comfortable with the human body, or scarring her for life and slowly making her realize that men are really disgusting (which I guess she'll learn eventually anyway).

She is relentless in her pursuit of information. Every time we go upstairs I'm now posed with the frightening question, "Where'd daddy's pen!s go?" That's not a question any male wants to be compelled to answer. What if, God forbid, you don't know the answer? Fortunately for me, so far I've answered correctly and confidently every time. "My pen!s is my pants, sweetheart."

"Why?" she asks. "Because that's where it belongs." Such a good response, if I may say so myself. In more ways than one.

The fact that this is all totally innocent and natural does not make it any less awkward for me. Still, just when you thought it was safe to go back in the water... the other night she was in the bath, playing with her toy fishing pole, trolling for turtles and pelicans and sharks. She then proceeded to identify the fishing pole as her pen!s. So that forces the conversation about girl and boy parts. And who has a pen!s and who has a vag!na.

And then she sees my wife undressing for bed, points at her breasts and blurts out, "That's mommy's pen!s." Huh? Then, on Easter Sunday of all days, my daughter is standing there as I get out of the shower. She points to my naked body and asks, "Where's daddy's vag!na?"

(I have now grown accustomed enough to writing the word 'pen!s' that I have stopped holding my breath every time I type it.)

And I guess that in itself is a victory, a breakthrough, a start at least. We said early on that we'd refer to human anatomy with their anatomically correct terms. I refuse to give my daughter the shaft. And shy away from her curiosity about the male form like a scared turtle cowers in its shell. Bring on the tough questions, little girl. I've got answers. They might not be the right ones, but I've got 'em.

That's pretty much the long and short of it.

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