When I pick Dylan up from my parent’s house, my dad likes to
point out what a serious mom I am each time Dylan brings the “no’s” out of me. “No,”
you can’t throw your plate; “no,” you cannot open the cupboard; “no,” you cannot
move the planter.
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And NO! I do not want to be a rule maker, rule enforcer,
boundary patrol parrot, but I kind of have a kid to protect (from himself). It
would be so much easier (and funner) if there were no sharp corners, no dishes
within reach, and no drawers to crush fingers in. But unfortunately, there’s no
“undo” button in real life so it’s kind of important to pay attention to Dylan’s
curious nature.
But damn, it sucks waking up and seeing drill sergeant mom
reporting for duty in the mirror. So secretly, at home, I let
things slide. Sometimes I get so sick of hearing myself say “no” that I pretend
I didn’t just see Dylan pickup his leg to crawl into the dishwasher, and I
really don’t hear his rolling closet door being slammed into the wall every
three seconds. Sometimes, my parenting style is nothing more than lazy. It’s
the whole, “if I don’t see you, you don’t see me” philosophy mixed with, “if it
ain’t broke don’t fix it,” topped off with some, “let’s just keep the peace.” I
avoid eye contact, I fake busy, and I monitor his activities from a ninja like
distance, just far enough away that I could save his head from cracking if
needed. That’s okay, right?
My dad may see me as the queen of no’s, but my castle in located
squarely in the kingdom of “no comment.” And as I swim in my moat of parenting omissions,
it’s nice to know I’m not as lazy as I think. So thanks dad! Who knew I was
such a hard ass?