Once in a while, an adult or a two will enter your personal space, excuse themselves, and proceed to share their impressions of your family.
And they temporarily convince you that your children are, indeed, the most beautiful, well-behaved seraphims, sent from on high, that they’ve literally ever seen. And you thank them, and pat yourself on the back for a moment, and continue on to your car, considering all the factors that went into that ‘excellent’ behavior, like the fact that it was almost 9pm and the kids were literally falling asleep in their macaroni and cheese.
But you take the compliments as they come, because you know that just a mile or so down the road, you’re going to be “that parent” with “those kids”, like during the Target trip where you only need a birthday gift for one of your kids’ classmates, or that ‘last stop’ you know they can’t handle, but have to get finished.
And then you wonder to yourself, Self? Are my children *literally* the most evolved three- and four-year-olds on the planet, blessed with the discipline of a thousand samurai and the enlightenment of the reincarnated, like some people say? Or are they the very embodiment of Mephistopheles, raised in vain, on a diet of molten metal spikes, sent to earth simply to inflict great suffering upon the human race?
Mother and three children, oil on wood (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
It’s a game of extremes. And it’s rarely accurate. Truth is, people, my kids are sometimes really great, and sometimes, they’re pretty goddamned awful. Because they’re kids. And the hardest part about it is I can’t always control when each will occur. I can give you a decent statistical probability based on meals, naps, and impending excitement, but, truly, and though you may think we can, we parents can rarely totally control our children.
I know, right?!
Of course, the kids aren’t terribly affected by the awe-inspiring ebb and flow of their own behavior. And they are also rarely blamed for it.
Parents, you know who is, right?
Apologize to strangers if you will, and ad nauseam, but it won’t amount to a hill of beans. Tell them your kids are normally well-behaved, and they will chortle. Explain to them that Halloween’s a pretty big deal, and that they’ve been bouncing off the walls for three days waiting to wear their costumes, and you’re really sorry your son leaned down and gave your becostumed pug a bear hug, but it will fall on deaf ears. It’s like spitting in the wind. There’s not a whole lot you can say.
Now, occasionally, you’ll get lucky and your eyes lock with a parent of three, four, or maybe five kids, who just knows, who knows that it’s 45 minutes past naptime, or that the flashing lights of the video games, or the brightly-colored balloons lining the room, have the ability to set kids off. Or the smell of popcorn. Or long shelves of toys and trinkets lining the way to a cash register. Or any combination of items or circumstances. They just know.
They’ll give you a sympathetic nod as your husband hoists a kicking, screaming, overstimulated child over his shoulder and presses for the exit. They know. These things happen. That’s life with young children.
Image Credit: Flickr
I’d started out explaining to people why my good kids were good when they were, and, conversely, what may have gone wrong to cause them to misbehave. I put my head down, I did the ‘sad face’, I did the aggravated chuckle/head shake combination, or I just looked straight ahead and left wherever I was.
And that evening, when my kids were recognized for being so ‘well-behaved’, actually falling asleep in their dinner, I left the restaurant, called my husband, and explained to him that, “I said thank you and just walked away, because they’d probably be the first people to express their displeasure if the kids were acting up.”
And that’s the way I approach it now. I am, of course, flattered and feel fantastic about our parenting when our children are well-mannered, but I don’t take any of it to heart, because, were it another day, three hours earlier, or the day before a holiday or another kids’ birthday party, we’d be having a very different conversation.
It’s the same way if ever I choose to hit the mall in old yoga pants and a hooded sweatshirt. Scoff, scoff, scoff, they’d say. But if I went home and changed, and returned in my three-quarter length coat, a sparkly scarf, my good jewelry and makeup, and my favorite boots, I’d be regarded – by the same people, mind you – completely differently. And there might be scoff, scoff, scoff, too, but for different reasons.
Perception is reality, but we’re still the same inside.
So, when someone shares with my husband and myself that we have a beautiful family, and our kids are just the cat’s meow, I think back to the day at the dairy farm my sons stuffed a baby cow’s water bucket full with hay, then started after the chickens like a pair of voodoo priestesses. Or when my daughter demanded, loudly and clearly, outside a restroom at Macy’s “Why that lady looks like a man?”, I just laugh. And shrug it off. And maintain my humility.
Because no one knows the whole story, and they never will. My kids are good. But they’re not all good, all the time. Because they’re four and three years old. Their brains haven’t created enough connections yet to hold them back from the inappropriate comment, or the giant Ninja Turtle balloon, or the remote-controlled plane.
And someday, they’ll be well-adjusted adults, gainfully employed, and socially savvy. But for today, they’ll obey in the store and then pick their noses in the parking lot. Or they’ll smile at strangers until they’re buckled into their car seats, where they’ll launch into a calculated attack for holiday donuts. Or they’ll just plain get tired, and misbehave.
And it’s okay with me.
Because, overall, my kids are good kids. And it’s too bad, if you didn’t catch us on that day, that you missed it. And it’s sad if you caught them on a challenging day, but, just like there are days I’m dressed to kill, there are others I’m dressed to be sent to What Not to Wear. They have those days, too, and I’m not apologizing.
My ‘good’ kids can be bad. And my ‘bad’ kids good. And we, as parents, must accept all of it.
And I think it’s best that you do, too.
