It had to happen, but it was nonetheless shocking. This morning for the first time, my daughter Vivian was as pissy and bratty and seemingly heartless to me as she’s been to my husband for the past several years. I believe her attitude shift heralds and end of an era, and Formerly Hot readers know that I don’t weather ending eras easily.
I know that a five-year-old telling her old moms to bite the big one (my words) is a perfectly normal developmental stage, signifying she’s becoming independent, which is a veritable testament to my overall skill as a parent, blah-de-blah blah. I’ve seen many a lovely kid her age tell an adored parent that she hates her, that she’s a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad person if told to put her shoes on when she’s not in the mood. Evidently Vivian feels loved and safe enough to be a complete snot-bucket.
But boy, when you go from being the family rock star, the favorite parent, the one who is fought over, emulated, worshiped, showered with endless affection and literally cheered when she enters a room, this fall from the top of top of the charts is bruising. Peter Frampton, I feel you, man.
Of course, she’s sassed me before; the difference is that a single eyebrow raised in disapproval used to be enough to get her to “rethink her choices,” as parenting experts put it. This time, even when I said I’d get out of the car if she didn’t stop whining (the dreaded withdrawal-of-mommy’s-physical-presence threat has never failed!) she replied, “OK, fine.” I repeated the threat (regretting that I made it because I didn’t want to walk). “Then do it,” she said.
So I did. Later, I asked my husband if she showed any remorse. “Hmmm, not really,” he said. I asked if she realized my leaving was intended as a punishment (which it would have been just last week.) Paul said he didn’t think so. “I think she may have felt like she was punishing you.”
Which she was! Holy shit. Who got a ride to school and who had to hoof it? D’oh! I’m so not making that threat again unless I’m wearing flats.
Go ahead, tell me I’m lucky that she’s been a little lovebug this long, and that her behavior bodes well for her not being a doormat when she gets older. I’ll agree with you. But I’ll still be a little bit sad.
December 3, 2008 at 11:52 am
Sorry, babe, as the less favored parent going on 11.5 years now, I have zero sympathy. I mean, I’m happy for you that you had your goofy little tricks like raising an eyebrow or getting out of the car—I’d use ’em if I had em—but I think ultimately such magic powers are a crutch. Ultimately, consequences have to be about the kid’s awareness of her actual self-interest and of societal norms, and her developing sense of empathy, not about the giving and withdrawing of mommy love. I’m sure you already have a broad arsenal of parenting skills that don’t involve sprinkling pixie dust, so don’t whine about having to use them.
I saw Frampton play with Bowie on the Glass Spider Tour in the late 80s. Boy, did he wail on “Rebel, Rebel.”
December 3, 2008 at 9:45 pm
On the snot bucket issue, Facebook doesn’t provide sufficient space for this kind of stuff, and I already posted once about this there, but I just love this scene. And boy, isn’t the Internet handy?
The Wire
season one, episode one
Ext. night: Rivulets of blood creep across pavement, flashing in the lights of a police cruiser, we pan across a body, and police investigating. Overlooking the scene from a tenement stoop are a young black guy and a 30ish male cop, Det. McNulty, seated side by side.
DM: So your boy’s name was what?
YBG: Snot.
DM: Called the guy Snot?
YBG: Snot Boogie
DM: God. Snot Boogie. You like the name?
YBG: What?
DM: Snot Boogie.
YBG: quiet, looks on
DM: This kid, whose mama went to the trouble to christen him Omar Isaah Betts… You know, he forgets his jacket, his nose starts running and some asshole, instead of giving him a Kleenex, he calls him “Snot”. So he’s Snot forever. Doesn’t seem fair.
YBG: Life just be that way, I guess.
DM: So, who shot Snot?
YBG: I ain’t goin’ to no court.
pause, filled only by the barking of dogs, somewhere in the neighborhood
YBG: Mother ****er didn’t have to put no cap in him though.
DM: Definitely not.
YBG: He coulda just whooped his *** like we always whoop his ***.
DM: I agree with you.
YBG: He killed Snot. Snot been doing the same **** since I don’t know how long. You don’t kill a man over some bull****.
YBG: I’m sayin’: every Friday night in an alley behind the Cut Rate, we rollin’ bones, you know? I mean all them boys, we roll til late.
DM: Alley crap game, right?
YBG: Like every time, Snot, he’d fade a few shooters, play it out til the pot’s deep. Snatch and run.
DM: What, every time?
YBG: Couldn’t help hisself.
DM: Let me understand. Every Friday night, you and your boys are shootin? crap, right? And every Friday night, your pal Snot Boogie… he’d wait til there’s cash on the ground and he’d grab it and run away? You let him do that?
YBG: We’d catch him and beat his *** but ain’t nobody ever go past that.
DM: I’ve gotta ask you: if every time Snot Boogie would grab the money and run away… why’d you even let him in the game?
YBG: What?
DM: Well, if every time, Snot Boogie stole the money, why’d you let him play?
YBG: Got to. It’s America, man.
February 4, 2009 at 5:14 am
Very good blog. I’ll definitely be back. All the best, Amare