Author: Sheila Quirke

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Disappointing Your Children, Or How Much Mr. Rogers and My Dad Don’t Have in Common

There are certain things in life you can count on.  The sky is blue, all poop stinks, April 15 is Tax Day (that’s today, yo), and Jon Hamm is ridiculously handsome.  Another certainty in life is that if you are a parent raising children, you will disappoint them at some time.  It’s okay.  You’re supposed to.

I have distinct memories as a child of feeling disappointed, but keeping that disappointment to myself.  Not all the time — I absolutely was the master of pouting at the dinner table.  But certain times, when I was disappointed in a situation or a parent or at a birthday or holiday and I did not get what I wanted, well, I handled that disappointment privately.  How did I know how to do that?  Who taught me?

And is hiding disappointment good or bad?  Hell, I don’t know.  I do know that my five year old handles his disappointments differently.  He is a master of the PDD — public display of disappointment.  It never fails to embarrass me.  We talk about it.  Mostly, his disappointments revolve around not getting what he wants or at transition times.  Time for dinner, time for school, time for bed, time for bath — those times are often difficult and the boy thoroughly shows his disappointment in varying degrees.

His five year old displays frustrate me no end.  They bring out my parenting id and super ego.  Remember the image of the little angel and devil on your shoulders?  Well, those are just handy symbols for your id (devil) and super ego (angel).  My personal parenting id and super ego images will make you laugh.  They are none other than my Dad and Mr. Rogers.  Sigh.  What does it say for me as a mom blogger that I have no maternal representation of the id and super ego?!

This is when I should have a therapist on speed dial.

Anyway.

So there is Mr. Rogers on one shoulder in the midst of my boy’s little (or not so little) PDD reminding me that children having a full range of emotional expression is important and acceptable.  That it’s okay to be angry, it’s just not okay to throw that wooden robot against the wall in the midst of that anger.  And over there on the other shoulder is my dear old Dad — the ultimate authoritarian figure — tsk tsking about the boy getting the better of me and that he would teach him a thing or two with a pat on the po po.

My parental super ego -- Mr. Rogers! Probably the most he has in common with my Dad is that they both love cardigans.
My parental super ego — Mr. Rogers! Probably the most he has in common with my Dad is that they both love cardigans.

And there is me, smack dab in the middle between Mr. Rogers and my Dad, trying to figure out this whole kid thing.

My dear Da, my personal parenting id, and some pretty insane product placement.
My dear Da, my personal parenting id, and some pretty insane product placement.

Parenting is hard and we all want to do it right.  I mean, by nature I am a pleaser — I want to do a good job, I enjoy pleasing those around me, and I benefit from the positive reinforcement pleasing folks brings.  But when my son sees red, so do I.  My first instinct is the thought — sheesh, I would never have gotten away with that!  My second thought, almost immediately following, is — it’s okay, he’s just expressing himself.  That parental whiplash can get exhausting.

As my son grows into childhood, I am learning to balance those id (dear old Dad) and super ego (Mr. Rogers) reactions, seeing them for what they are — two ends of the parenting spectrum.  As much as I love my Dad, his authoritarian ways will never be a perfect fit for my parenting.  And as wise and patient as Mr. Rogers was, I will never achieve his zen presence around children.

The best I can hope for and try to achieve is integration of my parenting id and super ego — that elusive thing called balance.  A little angel and a little devil, a little Da and a little Mr. Rogers.  Ha!  This is what I strive for in my mothering.  But make no mistake, it’s hard and a daily challenge. Some days I get it just right and other days I fail miserably.  Most days I fail at some parenting challenge.  Given that it’s a 24/7 kind of gig, though, that’s bound to happen.

Who are your parental id and super ego symbols?  What are the little voices inside your head telling you as you parent?  Please share, so I feel less awkward with this mini Fred Rogers on my shoulder.  

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Odd Crushes

You can not erase what you are about to read about me, so if you have an image of Mary Tyler Mom that you wish to protect, then step away from the screen right now.  Seriously, I’ll wait.  Power that sucker off, cause what I’m about to reveal ain’t pretty.

Okay . . . if you’re still here, you must be a die hard fan, stronger than the leading brand of paper towels, or both.  I love you.

This morning I was chatting with Rach Riot and Insane in the Mom Brain who were bragging (bitches) about their upcoming trip to Dayton, Ohio for the bi-annual Erma Bombeck Writers Workshop.  Bitches.

This workshop happens every other year (hence the bi-annual) and offers sessions for humor and human interest writers.  There is also a competition that you can submit your own writing to to be considered as funny, charming, and gifted as Ms. Bombeck.  I had enough hubris in 2012 to do just that, thinking I had a real shot.  Ha!  (Can you hear the sad trombones playing?)

Erma Bombeck was so freaking ahead of her time.  She is the patron saint of all mom bloggers.  Or should be.  My Mom, who had a dark and quietly disturbed, though well hidden, sense of humor, loved her.  I do, too.

But enough about Erma.  This post is about me.

I was already jealous that two friends were going and didn’t think to invite me along (it’s the Midwest, bitches — I totally would have happily been your third wheel and bought you pinot grigio and Modelo), when Rach Riot tells me that Phil Donahue is scheduled as the keynote speaker.

Swoon. Phil Donahue. Just look at that microphone, those glasses, that shock of thick, white hair. I can practically see the values oozing out of him.
Swoon. Phil Donahue. Just look at that microphone, those glasses, that shock of thick, white hair. I can practically see the values oozing out of him.

PHIL FREAKING DONAHUE.

I love Phil Donahue.  I have loved Phil Donahue for as long as I can remember.  In the 8th grade, we needed to submit a book report from an autobiography.  Most of my classmates were doing sports stars or Anne Frank.  I was the dork who wrote about Phil Donahue.  His autobiography had come out in 1981 and I gobbled it up as a sixth grader.  Serious dork, I tell you.

Phil was one of my first crushes.  He’s handsome in that Midwestern Irish sort of way.  He’s smart as hell.  And let’s just say that our politics overlap a wee bit.  Yes, my grade school classmates will gladly confirm that I had politics as a sixth grader.  Sigh.  Proud dork here.

There’s not too many young girls who crush out on liberal talk show hosts.  I was one of them.  An odd duck always and forever.  And to think I didn’t run with the popular crowd . . .

Crushes are a wonderful thing, aren’t they?  I think we can all agree on that.  They make you all tingly inside and are good for the soul.  Even as a happily married adult, I recommend them.  The trick, my friends, is just not to make your crushes too accessible.

Like, it’s a bad thing if you are married and heavily crushing on the dude in the cubicle next to yours.  Not cool.  That’s way too dangerous.  Just put that shit away, my friend.  Don’t go there.

The trick to a healthy adult crush is its inaccessibility.  The more out of reach the better.

Given my long and proud history of odd crushes, there was an adult crush I had a few years ago that got me in some hot water.  It was often the topic of cocktails parties, once I was outed by my husband.  The jerk.

In the early 2000s, Mary Tyler Dad and I loved to entertain.  We were young, married, child free.  This was before cancer had its way with us.  I cooked up this idea for what I sweetly referred to as our “Sexy Party.”  Doesn’t it sound naughty?  It wasn’t.  It was just your run o’ the mill dinner party, but we kept the invitation list small and restricted to our friends we thought qualified as sexy.  There was a written invitation that encouraged guests to dress in whatever helped them feel sexy.  I am certain we served what we felt was a sexy menu.  Passion fruit martini, anyone?

You get the drift.

Well the party was a complete and utter success.  Everyone was getting along (when hosting a dinner party, always invite folks who don’t know one another well — it adds to conversation), the food was delicious, and I was delightfully buzzed, as were most of our guests.  Plus, I was looking good.  I remember exactly what I wore to our Sexy Party.  Tuxedo pants, black strappy heels, and a backless top.  I’m not gonna lie, I looked hot.

But enough about me.

Oh wait, this whole post is about ME.  More me!

At some point at the table, after dinner, I think, and before dessert, us Sexy Party guests started talking about crushes.  There was a lot of chit chat about the usual suspects — Brad Pitt, George Clooney, Julia Roberts, Halle Berry.  Yawn.

Then, Mary Tyler Dad teased our guests with the fact that I had a secret crush.  WHO?, everyone demanded.  NO!, I replied, not gonna happen. You see, this particular crush was not politically correct in any way, shape, or form.  But Mary Tyler Dad, well, he couldn’t stop himself.  He let it slip, I think intentionally.  I’m still mad at him.

Donald Rumsfeld, former Secretary of Defense under both Presidents Gerald Ford and George W. Bush.
Donald Rumsfeld, former Secretary of Defense under both Presidents Gerald Ford and George W. Bush.

Hi, my name is Mary Tyler Mom and I had a crush on Donald Rumsfeld. HI, MARY TYLER MOM!.  Sigh.

Donald Rumsfeld, neocon extraordinare, one of the masterminds of the Iraq War, famous for his “It is what it is” speech.  Yeah, it was like a lead bomb, pun completely intended, had fallen over our Sexy Party.  Some friends still look at me differently.

I might hold my head in shame over this particular crush, but you have to admit, he is a pretty spiffy looking man, right?  And power is always attractive, right?  Right?  

No?  Oh well.  What can I say?  The heart wants what the heart wants.  Apparently, my heart wants older, white haired, powerful political beasts — either end of the spectrum.

Never be ashamed of your crushes, I tell you.  Never!

Now, before I die of embarrassment, please tell me your odd crush.  GO!

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Muddy Shoes

Monday was kind of a glorious day in Chicago.  Over sixty degrees and holding a whisper of warmth to come.  Like a movie trailer to the upcoming season, rated G for giddy.  The snow that started accumulating in December and just never left, well, it finally did.  Poof.  Gone.  All that remains of it are the photos and traumatic flashbacks, er, memories I mean.

We had a late afternoon play date at the local park with friends.  This is one of those good old fashioned parks with wood chips under your feet instead of odd rubber recycled stuff.  The trees are still naked and the grass is still brown, recuperating.  Children and adults alike looked happy and relaxed.  It was lovely.

This was my first time at the park with both boys since last fall.  Man, I was shocked by how much Mary Tyler Son has changed.  I don’t know if it was just being cooped up all winter or that his friend was there and he was feeling adventurous, but he was more physical than I had ever seen him.  Zipping in and out of the wooden fortresses, dodging from view more often than made me comfortable.  I was grateful for the bright green jacket he was wearing — easier to spot in the sea of kiddos.

At one point, he jetted off.  Running, running, running — away, away, away.  He went far enough that I thought it necessary to shout his name out.  He couldn’t hear.  That boy was busy, and it was clear he had an agenda.  I chased after him, Mary Tyler Baby in tow.  I finally found him about eight feet off the ground, climbing a tree.  Man, what a sight to see.

This was the same tree I remember him trying to climb last fall and feeling intimidated by it.  Pffft.  There was no intimidation Monday afternoon.  My boy conquered that tree.  He looked fearless and happy and free.  He needed a scolding for running away without telling me, “But I told my friend,” he said.  I didn’t have it in me.  I was too busy standing back and seeing my boy for the boy he was growing into.  A more adventurous boy, a climbing boy, a monkey swinging from vines kind of boy.

Glorious.

That is the boy I want to encourage.  That freedom in movement, that joy in play, that satisfaction in conquering trees.  I don’t take any of that for granted.  Each milestone my boy reaches is another milestone I reach as his parent.  Each thing Mary Tyler Son grows into is something his older sister never got to do.  I revel in that just as I imagine Donna does, too, somewhere.

Tonight, up late after crashing early, I found myself doing the things I wished I had done earlier — the dishes, sorting laundry, getting a few things settled for the morning rush.  I found Mary Tyler Son’s muddy shoes at the back door.  I meant to clean them yesterday, but didn’t get to it.  There they sat, at the back door, just where he took them off Monday afternoon.

Muddy Shoes

Muddy shoes.

As I reached for the cloth to clean them a bit so he could wear them to school tomorrow (am I the only Mom who cleans her son’s muddy shoes?), there was a gut check, visceral, about just how lucky I am to clean the muddy shoes of a healthy, thriving, joyful five year old boy.  I am the mom of a boy who runs and climbs trees and brushes the hair from his eyes as he looks to the next higher branch.

This boy is going places and I get to watch him.  And clean the mud from his shoes.  And choose to cheer him on rather than scold him.

Is there anything better?