I rarely drink anymore, not because I don’t enjoy it or because I think there is something wrong with the demon liquor, but only because of the calories. I would personally rather have M&Ms than a glass of wine most days. That’s just me. But yesterday was one of those days when I seriously needed that glass of wine at dinner, calories be damned. The combination of two unrelated but equally ego-bruising events drove me to drink.
First, yesterday afternoon, my three-year-old had a tantrum so enormous that even hours later, I still felt traumatized. What happened was that I impulsively decided to introduce J.R. to the concept of the sticker chart as a way to accelerate my rather lazy potty-training efforts. You know how these things work: the child gets a sticker for going pee-pee or poo-poo on the potty — I am so sick of the endless alliteration of potty-training — and when he completes a row of ten stickers, he gets a small toy. Not that I am comparing my kids, mind you, but…this was exactly how I potty-trained Zuzu when she was six months younger than J.R. is now. J.R. loved the idea; he just wanted all his stickers and his prize RIGHT NOW, thank you very much. He peed on the potty, got his sticker, and then demanded the next nine stickers so he could have his prize. I cheerfully explained that he would get another sticker when he peed on the potty again, so, he ran back to the potty. Well, of course, nothing happened. An hour of intense hysterical rage ensued. He screamed; he kicked; he shook; he hyper-ventilated. I’m not entirely sure how I finally calmed him down, although I believe that a pacifier and some “Handy Manny” were involved. (Yep, Disney Channel and three year olds with pacifiers. That’s how I roll.)
The really galling thing was that I had done this to myself. Why did I even introduce the stupid sticker chart? I should have known that it would only drive him crazy. For three years, J.R. has demonstrated that he is a completely different personality than his sister. She’s easy-going, flexible and capable of delaying gratification. He’s intense, strong-willed and obdurate. She’s anxious to please her parents, her teachers, really anyone in authority. He doesn’t give a damn. And he does not take no for an answer. (But don’t think that we consider her to be “the good one” and him “the bad one.” Okay, we do sometimes. But we don’t prefer her. J.R. can be pretty darn adorable in his intransigence.) So, why do I keep trying the same tricks? When will I get the message that he is not motivated the same way his sister is? The bitter truth was that the entire disaster was traceable to the fact that I had failed to parent the kid I have.
Naturally, during this same afternoon in which I committed parenting hari-kari, I heard about yet another former schoolmate getting an amazing, high-profile job. This kind of thing happens to me all the time. I was lucky enough to go to school with, and work with, brilliant, ambitious people, and it only makes sense that many of these people are now hitting their professional strides. My husband and I have friends and classmates who have published books, argued in front of the Supreme Court, gotten tenure, and been named editors of prestigious publications. Not that my husband has any reason to feel bad. He is a national figure in his area of expertise, and his area happens to be one that both helps a very deserving population – young children – and one that is hot right now. So he’s good.
As for me, all I do is take care of our two children, and yesterday, I even sucked at that.
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