Give me your worst parenting stories
January 4, 2008I need them. For my mental health.
And no, not the stories of other horrible people messing up—the stories of good, virtuous you messing up.
I need to know that you can be a good parent and still deeply, deeply suck at it, at times. Today, for instance. When I yelled so loudly at my son that my throat still hurts. (Did you know that mittens are an instrument of torture? That socks are painful? Neither did I, until I met Henry.) Thank god I don't have a deadline tonight because I need this glass of wine. And I need to go to bed before 8. And wake up in a few years, when he's able to dress himself.
Speaking of deadlines, a new Wonderland is up!
And now it's time for you to share your Stories of Parental Ineptitude. I know you won't let me down.
Now that I think of it, I'm holding a contest. The Parental Ineptitude tale that amuses me most will win...something. I haven't thought that through yet. My deep and abiding respect? Something like that. I need to have more wine and think about it.
Reader Comments (240)
Now that I read that, it doesn't sound so bad, but honestly, she was so attached!
Also, I tend to get my spaz on when she pulls all the baby wipes out of the package, even though I was *sure* that I put it in a safe place.
Oh oh! And some days I don't even take her outside because it's too cold - and I'm actually HAPPY that I don't have to go out. Sometimes too cold is actually pretty warm, but whatever :P
Once upon a time we had a VERY. BAD. DAY. My husband was out of town, my three children were tired, I was tired. There was crying involved, some of it even from the children.
I got oldest off to first grade, middle off to pre-school and sat in a stupor on the couch with three year old youngest. He picked a very large booger and he was GOING for it, he was totally going to eat it. I shreaked at him to stop. I reached for a tissue. There were no tissues. He wiped it on my hand.
I HATE BOOGERS. HATE THEM. And there were no tissues. And I didn't want to get up and get one, because I was tired.
So I gave it back to him. And he ate it.
The end.
I also cut his finger while clipping his nails;
I was trying to trim the hair around his ears (you know, the sort of sideburny part on a little boy) and he said MAMA YOU'RE CUTTING MY EAR! and I said oh shush, I am NOT, and oops, I was!
I have, on more than one occasion, yelled at him while trying to get him out the door for school, "dammit, where's your fucking jacket? Come on, this is bullshit..."
Etc, et al. You are so NOT ALONE.
A few hours later, she started clutching my arm frantically and began moaning continuously. Turns out she wasn't being dramatic, she was very ill (and doing much better now). I don't know how she'll ever trust me again.
The last 4 entries discuss the dogs and boy in detail.
http://therockingpony.blogspot.com
And there's also the wonderful time that I had a 4 month old, and was given some cans of baby formula for him. As I was leaning down to pick up the carseat the bag swung around and the cans smacked him full force on the head IN THE DOCTOR'S OFFICE. It left a mark, a bump and thankfully no permanent record.
I too have a five year old. So you know the kinds of battles I'm having right now with her; you are living through it.
However, I realized when she was 2 years old that I could not spank her. She was touching the water dispenser (Alhambra) after I'd asked her numerous times not to. Finally, she was touching it, yet again, and I hauled off and slapped her little hand as hard as I could.
I'm sure she doesn't remember it, but I remember the absolutely terrifying feeling that I had just lost all control and hit my daughter. With all of the strength in my body. I cried with her, and vowed at that very moment that I would never spank her again. I couldn't trust myself not to lose it and cause her serious damage.
It's worked too. Now I use other methods of discipline. That day I felt like I'd been reduced to mud. Other than that, I'm an okay mom.
My 4-year-old son came home during the recent holiday season asking what a "talon" was. I explained to him that it was a big claw, such as you would find on an eagle. That seemed to perplex him more. He then wanted to know why a talon would be gold. Now I was pretty confused and asked him where he had heard of gold talons. Turns out they were singing "Go Tell It on the Mountain" (Gold Talon on the Mountain) for their Christmas program. I laughed merrily and explained what the song was actually called.
He looked at me like I was batshit crazy and started a 10-minute-long argument to prove to me that the song was actually about Gold Talons. The insane part? I PARTICIPATED FOR THE FULL TEN MINUTES. I argued like frickin' Clarence Darrow on behalf of Go Tell It. With a four year old.
The other is not mine but happened to me. My childhood best friend and I had families who were also close friends, so we often vacationed together. One summer, when BFF and I were probably five or six, we were all visiting a quaint lakeside town with many galleries and other things that would not in any way amuse five year olds. I'm sure we were being total pains in the ass. Anyway, both sets of parents, BFF's and mine, kind of went temporarily insane and dropped us off at a local playground where we could amuse ourselves. And then they left us there, alone. The playground was located just on the other side of the highway leading into the town.
They came to their senses about a half an hour later and rushed back to pick us up. BFF and I had of course been terrified--after a brief feeling of freedom--and were much more cooperative after that. But we can still guilt our parents about this, some 30 years later, whenever we mention that playground in Bigfork.
I was six or seven, the youngest of five kids. We lived in South Dakota in a little town about 25 minutes from the nearest city, Winner (by "city" I mean "town with at least 1,000 people and a couple stores and a bank"). We went to school there (one room schoolhouse, believe it or not); my mom would take a break from work after school, take me to the library and my older siblings to the library or rec center.
On this day in November (remember this is South Dakota, so it was already coooold), the older ones went to the rec center and I chilled at the library. I became totally absorbed in my books without even noticing that 4:00 came and went without my mother ever showing up with my siblings to take me home. In fact, I didn't notice anything until 5:00 when the library closed and the two librarians kicked me out (good citizenship for the win!). They were nice enough to let me call home first, but there was no answer. So they set a six-year-old out on the front steps in the middle of November. Awesome!
I kept it cool for a little while. I walked a block over to the rec center to see if my siblings were around. Nothing. I walked another block to my mom's work. Office dark and closed. Our giant station wagon was nowhere to be seen.
I came back to the library, sat on the steps, and sobbed for twenty minutes. Then I heard a familiar engine. A big, rattling, muffler-free car.
I looked up and literally danced in the middle of the parking lot. I had never been so happy in my life.
My mom was distraught. She was way more upset than I was. I don't know how no one noticed I was missing, but somehow she picked up the others at the rec center and got home without anyone noticing I was gone. I hold it over her head to this day. It's awesome.
And I've never not loved my mom or needed therapy. If that's any comfort.
Anyway, my most recent "mommy needs to get a grip moment" happened when I found myself yelling "USE YOUR WORDS" and then realized I was talking to the 10 month old who doesn't talk yet! duh!!! great role model
We were moving from Missouri to Virginia, and the movers were coming within days. I was trying to clean out a closet or something, and all day the kids had been fighting over this ONE damn baloon. Constant non stop fighting. Finally, in a fit of rage, I grabbed the balloon, took a pen and popped that God damned ballon. The sense of satisfaction I got from that pop noise was quickly squelched by the looks on my kids faces, who are seven and three.
They were wide eyed, lips aquivering, tears pooling in the eyes, and they both simultaneously howled in pain and horror. My son, who is usually laid back and easy going at three, was down right HURT. He ran around in a daze, wailing "Why? Why would you do that? Why mommy? Why would you POP my balloon?" My dramatic seven year old wailed "My balloon friend" over and over. And yes they too tried to patch together the balloon.
Instead of feeling bad, I covered my mouth, and ran into the bathroom, and laughed.
Here's mine: My then 4-year-old daughter has a wheezy cough. As the day goes on it gets worse and worse and my mother (who we lived with at the time) suggests I take her to the ER. I poo-poo her suggestion several times (notorious worry-wart). Until! It's 2am and the "cough" has gotten so bad that my daughter and I get in a warm shower in an attempt to ease what I still think is normal congestion. It's not until her back is resting against my chest and I feel her shallow breathing and hammering heart that I hie-us-hence to the hospital. It is, of course, an asthma attack. My mother, to her credit, does not say "I told you so".
First, my mother. I was nine, and had been very recently hospitalized for flu complications. I had been severely dehydrated and had a fairly traumatic time in the hospital. Shortly after I was released (I'm talking somewhere in the space of a week), we went on our already scheduled vacation to Florida. We drove. From Michigan. At one point in the three-day drive, we were sitting in a booth in some little restaurant, and I just closed my eyes for a few seconds. I didn't whine or moan or hold my head or anything dramatic. Just sat there with my eyes closed, maybe for ten seconds. My mom said, very loudly, from across the table, "Would you quit acting like you're gonna die and just eat you dinner!"It was quite possibly the meanest thing ever to come out of her mouth, but I mentioned it to her recently, and she doesn't even remember it. My dad does, though, and says that he was furious at her for it.
Now for me: My eight year old daughter let our newly-adopted greyhound out in the backyard without realizing that my five year old had left a gate open. Of course, the dog got out and was long gone by the time we figured it out. I screeched at my poor daughter for about five minutes--things like "How could you??" and other awful things that made her think it was all her fault--all the while driving around with the windows down, trying to find the dog. The poor kid sat in the backseat and sobbed, calling the dog's name in a horribly sad little voice.We did eventually find the dog, safe and sound in a nearby backyard. And even though I felt absolutely terrible for yelling at her, I never did apologize to my daughter for being so completely awful. And I still feel horribly guilty.
Turned out that she was blind in one eye! No depth perception! And poor vision in the other eye too! She couldn't see past her feet! Makes it hard to steer! Hahahahaha! Oops.
I still feel bad about that one, though I take comfort that I finally got her vision sorted out and with a little patching and glasses she can ride her bike fine now.
And if their food wasn't finished? Too bad for them--there's another shift coming up and I wasn't about to endure two at the same time.