Tag Archives: girl scouts

What Kind Of Parent Are You?

sweetie-mommy-needs-you-to-turn-down-your-psycho-before-23482531.png
Before I had kids, I knew exactly what kind of parent I would be.

I’d be the kind who:

  1. Makes their kid wonderful meals from scratch and teaches them to love eating healthy sophisticated foods, and
  2. Reasonably explains why screaming in public is a bad idea and therefore has super well-behaved kids in public.

And as it turns out, my kids will consider shoving a piece of broccoli in their mouths… if it’s covered in cheese or butter and holding a plate of ketchup-drenched dinosaur nuggets hostage.

And last week, Bridget threw such a huge fit in the park that three other parents stepped in to help me deal with it. They found her grit truly impressive.

Brontë later reported her baby sister’s episode to her father thusly:

Brontë: Bidgie threw a huge fit at the park today.

John: Oh yeah?

Brontë: Yes, a BIG… HUGE… CRAZY FIT!

Bridget: THAT NOT TRUE.

Brontë: Yes it is.

Bridget: I DON’T LIKE YOU.

Brontë (bursting into tears): That hurts my feelings.

Bridget: Okay, okay, I love you… Now SHUT UP!

So apparently, we don’t really know what kind of parents we’ll be until we actually have kids and other parents to compare ourselves with and while other parents are reminding their kids to “make good choices today” while dropping them off at school, I’m hiding behind trees for jump-scares.

(I don’t know if jump-scares are a good choice, even if your kids think it’s hilarious, so I’m guessing that “Super-Responsible Mom” isn’t me.)

IMG_2465Even so, the neighborhood somehow talked me into being one of the Girl Scout Leaders for our local troupe, which makes me question their collective judgment. Cookie sales have been happening lately, for example, and yet no one’s on board with my ideas about targeting bars and dispensaries. I mean… fish in a barrel, right?

Are these good choices, Erin?

And then I go encouraging little girls to write about dog poop, which makes more sense in context…

See, since I’m a freelance writer, I was asked to give a small presentation about writing so the girls could earn their journaling badges. Really? In front of people? I’m an introverted writer, sheesh…

But I managed it and then the girls broke into groups to write their own stories. Since this week’s theme was helpfulness, they had to write about Something They Did That Was Helpful.

I sat next to a little girl, aged about 7, with a blonde bob that we’ll call “Lucy” for the purposes of this tale.

Me: What would you like to write about, Lucy?

Lucy (looking defiant): DOG POOP.

Me: Alright, dog poop. Is dog poop helpful?

Lucy (smirking): My dog POOPED in my room and I HAD TO PICK IT UP. That was HELPFUL of me.

Me (nodding): I can see that. But look, you can’t just write “I picked up some dog poop in my room.” We need to be able to *see* the poo, to smell it…

Lucy (giggling): What!?

Me: Well, what did it look like? Was it brown or black? Stinky or dry? Tell me about this dog and your room and where he pooped in it.

Lucy (turning pink): He’s a small dog and the poo was small and he pooped in the corner of my room.

Me: That’s a good start, but we need more details. I want to be able to feel the warmth of his turd in my hand as I read your story.

Lucy (laughing until she’s wiping tears off her cheeks): OMG, well, it was dry already and cold but still pretty gross. I have to pick up his poop ALL THE TIME!

Me: And how does that make you feel?

Lucy: Angry!

Me: But also good at picking up dog poop?

Lucy: I guess… yeah. Can a draw a picture when I’m done?

Me: Sure. Be sure to draw the poop and circle it and write “poop” with an arrow pointing to the poop when you’re done.

And she did. She wrote two whole pages all about this poo episode and was feeling pretty good about it until her mom was picking her up and another Scout yells, “LUCY WROTE ABOUT POOP!”

Lucy’s mom’s face turns mortified white.

I jump in: “See, the girls were supposed to write about being helpful and Lucy felt helpful about cleaning up after the dog. She wrote all about her dog and what the poop was like and how she was being helpful for the family.”

Lucy’s mom relaxed, whew. Maybe she thinks I’m a maniac now, but she needed to know I’d encouraged this behavior before Lucy got in trouble for repeatedly saying “POOP” in front of all the other girl scout moms.

I mean, maybe it wasn’t the loftiest topic, but she did end up writing a long, creative story instead of continuing to resist the exercise, and vented her frustration in a harmless way.

Plus, Lucy’s totally my buddy now. She thinks I’m on the level. Which is why she approached me at the next meeting to ask what was going on in a photo she found in National Geographic. (We were cutting photos out of magazines to illustrate posters about good values and my group’s poster was about HONESTY.)

Me: Hmm… it looks like a shaman is trying to get rid of this woman’s uterine tumor.

Lucy: What’s a uterine?

Me: Umm… well, you know how women get big bellies when they’re going to have a baby?

Lucy: Yes?

Me: The baby is inside their “uterus.” It’s where the baby grows.

Lucy: Oh. What’s a tumor?

Me: It’s when cells keep growing like mad scientists and it makes a big lump that can kill you.

Lucy (nodding): What’s a shaman?

Me: It’s like… a witch doctor. Someone who heals by using spells and medicine.

Lucy: Is it working?

Me: Probably not.

sneakalongRight then, another Girl Scout mom walks up, swipes our copy of National Geographic and adds it to the pile she’s carrying. “These are NOT appropriate for children,” she says, and I can’t help wondering if it’s because I was just explaining witch doctors and uterine tumors to the children.

(But wouldn’t lying to the children while making a poster about HONESTY be somewhat hypocritical?)

So it turns out, I’m a weird parent. Eh, at least the kids seem to appreciate how I’m not real easy to shock.

And they also like the jump-scares.

 

 

Advertisements

Leveling Up The Parenting Game

One of the most frustrating parts of parenting is when you’re struggling to cope with brand new life equations as more veteran parents chuckle about how you don’t even know.

Like, you’ll be dealing with morning sickness and ill-timed incontinence while constantly hearing: Just WAIT until the baby is born… 

Then you’re losing your mind from netting five unbroken hours of sleep last week be as people keep telling you: Psh… this is the EASY part. 

Because parenting, much like a video game (or life itself), involves always developing more skills and better strategies. Once you’re past infant stage, you tackle the Potty-Training Challenge, the Cleaning Up Your Toys Challenge, and try to swing the Not Throwing Tantrums in Restaurants & Grocery Stores Achievement for bonus points.

And recently, I leveled up. Yay! My daughter Brontë just started Kindergarten.

IMG_5383She was pretty excited about it. She kept yelling, “WHO HAS TWO THUMBS AND IS GOING TO KINDERGARTEN? THIS GIRL!” on the ride over,

She was thrilled to put her unicorn backpack on the little hook and line up with the other kids to file into class. When I came to pick her up, she walked out of class to find me standing where I’d left her and, looking perplexed, asked me, “Have you been waiting for me this whole time?

She was relieved to find out I hadn’t been stuck there all day, but her mood soured on the car ride home.

“I’m MAD at you,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because… Kindergarten wasn’t what I expected. I’m disappointed. And you just left me there. I think I want to stay home with you and Bridget instead.”

Hmm. Well, I suppose Kindergarten is a whole different animal than preschool, where the kids get to run around playing and doing whatever they want. Kindergarten involves RULES and sitting still and stuff like that.

“I’m sorry you were disappointed,” I told her. “But I’m sure you’ll get used to it and make lots of friends. You’ll learn about a lot of stuff. Like, how to read.”

“I already know everything.”

“No… you don’t.”

“I can pretend.”

This went on for a while until I finally reminded her that she wants to be an astronaut and that being an astronaut means having to go to school and she found herself without reasonable counterarguments.

Thankfully, after a week or so of this Kindergarten routine, Brontë actually started looking forward to it. She likes her teacher and gets to go to class with the neighbor’s kid, who is already her good friend.

But that’s not all. Brontë is also a Girl Scout now.

This all happened when my neighbor, a close friend, teamed up with some other neighborhood women to embark on their very own Girl Scout Troop and I was yanked into their orbit.

Being part of this pioneering group means I’m going to be one of the leaders, which is somewhat daunting because I don’t know anything about Girl Scouts since being kicked out of the Brownies, many years ago, for frustration-pinching the other kids after the indignities of being forced to pimp their cookies without getting to tie cool knots overwhelmed me.

I remember it like it was yesterday. Some boy in my class was showing off his merit badges for knowing how to tie seven different knots when it suddenly occurred to me: How come I don’t know how to tie any knots? How come I’ve never been camping? ALL WE DO IS SPRAY GOLD PAINT ON MACARONI BOXES AND SELL THEIR COOKIES AND I’M CLEARLY BEING USED…

Which all culminated in me running around pinching everyone at the Girl Scout meet-up, later that night, because kids don’t know how to properly express themselves.

I can still remember my mother driving me home, too confused to even be angry, repeatedly asking me why I wanted to run around pinching everyone as I sat there unable to explain. I think the fact that I was normally such a calm, obedient child made it all the more baffling.

And I have yet to share this information with the neighborhood moms.

(Not sure if I will.)

But that’s not all. Brontë is now also on a soccer team: The Dragonflies.

Which makes me now, officially, a Soccer Mom.

To be honest, I have mixed feelings about this because it’s such a cliche. I was really irritated that one time a taxation-is-theft guy on Facebook condescendingly called me a soccer mom as we were arguing about gun control because it seemed to imply I’d lived too sheltered and naive a plastic life to appreciate How The World Really Works. As though I’d spontaneously sprung into the role of mothering without any previous life experiences to inform my views…

But mostly, it means that the trendy midtown resident I used to be, who listened to all the weird bands and went dancing with her girlfriends at whatever new place may be gone forever. That the notion of parenthood never changing me was all a lie.

It echoed that fateful moment at the dinner table when my husband shouted, “I’ve got a POCKETFUL OF TIMEOUTS!” to our unruly kids and I realized we just weren’t cool anymore.

On the other hand, Brontë thinks soccer practice is super fantastic because she likes being part of a team, especially when it involves uniforms. She likes that “Everything is Awesome” song from the Lego movie, un-ironically.

Even though she doesn’t fully understand what soccer means. At the first meet up, after the coach gave the kids a long lecture about how to play, the meaning of sportsmanship, and asked if anyone had any questions, the girls sat silent for a few moments until Brontë slowly raised her hand.

“Yes?” he asked.

“I think that Sleeping Beauty is the very best princess,” she said, with extreme authority.

Another kid raised her hand.

“Ariel is my favorite princess.”

“That’s a good one too,” Brontë acknowledged.

And meanwhile, Bridget quietly grabbed a soccer ball and having never touched one before, started pulling these moves:

So… Bridget may end up appreciating soccer on an entirely different level than her sister, but she’s still too young to play. It’s been a rough month for Bridget, who has to watch her big sister go to Kindergarten, become a Girl Scout, and join a soccer team without being able to participate. Being a three-year-old with an older sibling is hard.

And as for me, well… my whole schedule has been having to adjust, which is why I haven’t been blogging as regularly. I’m sure it’s nothing compared to what I’ll be up against once Brontë and Bridget are both doing lots of stuff.

Just wait until they’re teenagers…