Parenting Perils

Parenting Perils

At the age of seventy-six, I look back at parenting as the most challenging endeavor of my life. When my only child, Russell, graduated from Kindergarten Montessori School, the staff praised his above-average verbal skills and keen insight. I took full credit, an illusion of control which worked against me whenever my boy struggled. By the age of three, he wasn’t yet toilet- trained.

“He should be out of diapers by now,” declared my sister-in-law. “You need to be firm and spank him if necessary.”

She never had her own children but took great pride in her expertise as a live-in nanny when she first came to Canada from Switzerland.

I briefly applied corporal punishment, and Russell began withholding bowel movements. Severe constipation became a painful and ongoing issue. I began using reward stickers instead of spankings, and eventually the problem was resolved.

My mother had been a child psychiatrist. She’d often told me when I was growing up how easy it had been to train my older brother.

 “…And then YOU were born!”

Was I somehow complicit?

 I was a schoolteacher. That meant I should be an expert at child-rearing. I dedicated many precious hours to “Storytime and Cuddle.” Russell, Freddy Teddy and I read and reread Dr. Seuss and Robert Munsch every night.

By the time he was in Grade One, he had mastered “invented spelling” and wrote lengthy and imaginative stories praised by his teacher for detail and creativity. Another GOOD MOTHER badge.

 My cigarette smoking and Russell’s bronchial asthma were no coincidence, and a shameful stain on my endeavors to be perfect. So, I quit. During the worst of the withdrawal, I substituted alcohol for cigarettes, argued with my husband Peter, nagged Russell, inhaled junk food, gained fifteen pounds, and repeatedly rearranged furniture.

One Saturday evening, lonely and bored, I decided to reward myself with a bottle of wine and a juicy movie on TV. My husband, Peter, usually hung out with his friends, and I indulged in self-soothing escape, justified by resentment.  I prepped for my escape by helping Russell assemble his train set on the living room floor. He moved the locomotive around the track and chattered about switches and yard masters. His dad worked at CP Rail.

Satisfied my little guy was preoccupied, I reclined on the couch, selected a movie I hadn’t seen for fourteen years, and proceeded to watch The Exorcist.

Russell’s chatter receded into the background as I relished the mounting horror of each scene. His little voice suddenly sliced through my hypnosis with a strident question that had nothing to do with trains.

“What’s the devil doing, Mommy?” As Russell gaped at green vomit, I responded with what I believed to be a suitable answer.

“It’s just make-believe. It’s green pea soup.”

“Oh.”

Denial is a powerful form of self-delusion. Since Russell had accepted my explanation so easily, I continued watching and continued drinking. Alcohol pollutes sane thinking.

The following week, I was summoned by his teacher.

With a furrowed brow, she slid his latest creative story across the table. Letter sounds were strung together phonetically to expand on the title, “The Angry Devil.”

My head was a hot-air balloon of shame as I scanned the words from left to right:

The bad devl wuz vare angree and sed muthrfuking coksuker he was vare rood and pukt on the preest …

“Where did he learn such language?” his teacher asked.

Scalding prickles crept up my neck. “His father works at CP Rail. He swears a lot when he gets home from work. I’ll talk to him.”

Although this statement was somewhat true, I worried she’d seen the movie, knew the truth, and judged my choice to expose an innocent child. Desperate to avoid such scrutiny, I threw Peter under the bus.

 That evening, I ambushed Peter as he came home from work. With teacher-rehearsed authority, I called for a “family meeting.”

“Russell’s teacher told me he is using inappropriate language at school. He hears you swearing when you get home from work. From now on, whenever one of us says a bad word, we should put a quarter in this.”

 I pointed at a large glass jar with a neatly printed label attached. SWEAR JAR.

“Whatever you think is best,” mumbled Peter, with a dismissive shake of his head as he headed out the door.

As soon as his dad was gone, Russell looked up at me with his thoughtful, dark brown eyes. “Mommy, I don’t think this jar is a very good idea. Daddy can’t afford it.”

The swear jar was soon forgotten when I heard no more complaints from Russell’s teacher.

I soon focused on another “teacher-mom” project. I suggested Russell make some money by having a yard sale. Providing ten dollars in assorted coins to make change, I taught Russell how to count money.  I helped him display old toys, books and clothes on the left side of the lawn, leaving the other half for his friend, James.

In my periphery vision, I noticed James arranging some magazines and books in neat rows.

An elderly woman strolled along the sidewalk and paused in front of James’ s display first. I acknowledged her kind and curious nod with a smile and turned back to focus on my son.

Her attack was a sudden and strident volley of machine-gun rage.

“How could you condone this disgusting trash?” she sputtered. She pointed, gasped, clutched her chest, and marched off.

Stunned by her outburst, I wandered over to James’s section of the lawn and gawked at several issues of a magazine called “Hustler” and an array of pornographic paperbacks. The book covers were illustrated by drawings of pouting, garter-clad women in seductive underwear. The magazine covers revealed topless, heavily endowed models.

In a panic, I scooped up the evidence of my inept supervision and shoved it back in the box.

“James, these are inappropriate,” I accused, trying to block Russell’s vision.

“But my dad said I could sell them, and my mom said she was glad he was getting rid of them,” argued James.

James pouted like a pug, as Russell and I carried on with the event. At the end of the afternoon, James forgot his resentment as he helped Russell count the earnings.

It was time to show James’s mother the incriminating evidence.

 Her face turned radish-red, her hands shook, she avoided my eyes.

“I can’t imagine where he got these! He must have found them at the back of our garage!” she stuttered.

And in a dark, secret hideaway in my mind, I recalled being in her position, not that long ago, with Russell’s teacher.

I’d endure many more pain-filled parenting experiences over the coming years. If I’d known what was coming when Russell hit his teens, I’d have put my head between my legs and kissed my ass good-bye.

He became a defiant, school-avoidant, angry teen who experimented with drugs. Horrified and grieving, I drowned in despair, tears, rage, and self-blame. And one day, while weeping, I heard my mother’s voice, clear as a bell, even though she’d passed on twelve years prior. “Oh, stop your nonsense. I was a child psychiatrist, and I couldn’t fix you, could I?”

 Looking back, I am learning to cut myself some slack. I forgive my parents, my husband, my son, and most of all, myself. Aren’t most of us trying to do our best? When we know better, we do better.