“Hay is for horses, not people.” So says Mrs. Lambchop in every volume of the children’s chapter series, Flat Stanley. My kids think this is funny and have started repeating it whenever I start a sentence with “Hey,” as in, “Hey, did you remember your library books?” The kids immediately holler, “Hay is for horses!” which leads me to wonder: Aren’t I the one who is supposed to be imparting such pithy lessons?
My own mother was big on correcting me about the uses of “I” and “me”—she still does, should I mess up in her presence. But it seems like some of her generations’ strict rules and regulations have been lost on my own. While my daughter’s sixty-something violin teacher makes her spit out her gum before a lesson, I fail to even notice that she’s chomping away. Once, my son’s daycare teacher made him apologize to me after being rude. I was so tired and eager to get him home that I hadn’t even registered what a jerk he’d been—a very small jerk, but a jerk nonetheless.
So am I failure? It would be easy to berate myself and during my kids’ first few years of life, I did so plenty. But I’ve figured out that being a good enough parent is just fine. Perfection does not create perfect kids—maybe messed up kids and stressed out parents, yes, but not perfect. Because if the 1950s taught us anything, there is no such thing as perfect.
Changing Ideals, Loosening Rules
Today, as a single mother, I lean toward the casual end of the parenting scale. That’s not to say that there aren’t certain lines my kids do not cross. To wit—books are hallowed; sugar is not to be eaten without asking first; seatbelts are always buckled; television is a rarity and something to be earned; pets should be respected, not lugged around or dressed up like playthings; and most important of all, we are kind to each other, no matter how tired we are or how momentarily wronged we may feel. Everything else is fair game.
