Printer Friendly

Email This Page

Leave a Comment

Read Comments (0)

Sign Up!

...or does it seem that everyone else’s kids are better behaved than ours?

You see those kids over there – no second booth from the end – see how they just sit there? Now those are kids that know how to chill! Why can’t you two just chill? Chilling’s a good thing. It’s cool to chill! (Christ, listen to me) Chilling is, well, chill. (OK, a little better). Look at them; the little boy doesn’t even touch his little sister. Throwing that syrup on your brother just cost you a week without Game Cube – hope it was worth it. Those kids over there are here to eat, not fool around and lose privileges. Look at how they just sit there, chewing (staring straight ahead too, even the parents. Okay, that’s kind of weird…) it’s just lunch, at Denny’s – that’s it. Why do you have to turn it into a war zone? (Alright, the zombie family is creepy - bad example).

Since the wedding, Josh and Ben seem even more comfortable with me, so I’ve graduated to a level where I now bear the full brunt of any tantrum, just like their mother. Elizabeth and I are right on course with discipline, and try to be consistent at all times, but we’re starting to get a little miffed about how difficult things are– we sometimes dread having to take them out in public with us. What is it we’re doing wrong?

Lately, when it comes to parental governance, I find myself slipping into fits of frustration more often than I’d like. I used to be so easy-going. One time, at the main resort building at Port Orleans at Disney, Josh was egging Ben to throw rocks at the paddle boats out in the lagoon—and a nice lady (a mother of three) commented on how “patient” I was with the children. But lately I’ve been hijacked by some dark repressive entity. Like Dr. Jekyll becomes Hyde, my even-handed Dr. Phil effectively morphs into: Old School Guy.

Old School Guy predates the feel-good seventies and the cultural revolutions of the late sixties; he voted for Harry Truman, watches Leave it to Beaver and Jack Benny, guffaws uncontrollably to the Marx Brothers, and vividly remembers the day JFK was shot. Old School Guy’s parents lived through the Great Depression. He grew up sitting at the separate “kid’s table” on holidays, was not under any circumstances able to disturb the adults right after work when the parlor doors were closed (cocktail hour), and would sooner die than attempt to change the channel during the Nightly News. If Old School Guy were to allowed to rule over these children unfettered by Elizabeth’s common sense, then Josh and Ben would be besieged by a resolute phalanx of stern, old fashioned tough love – and yet on the other hand, I am (and I suppose Old School Guy is on some level) actually terrified of being “The Punisher”. I’m pretty sure that’s the very same reason I didn’t pursue a career in management when I had the opportunity. I worry that every little reprimand I make will have an exponentially devastating impact later on.

In other words, I’m turning into my own parents. It’s one of the more alarming side effects I’ve discovered since embarking upon my parenting journey.

(This is an excerpt from "They Call Me Wheels", a memoir by Geoffrey E. Matesky, NOW AVAILABLE from iUniverse, Amazon.com, & Barnes & Noble (bn.com). If you are a bookseller and wish to obtain copies, please contact the sales department of my publisher, iUniverse.com for more details.)