melissarudy.com

Too old for her ba-ba? Just try to take it away.

If parents went to jail for trivial transgressions, John and I would be on permanent lockdown. After our first daughter was born — and probably up until the time she started cutting teeth — we did our best to follow the mental rule book we’d pieced together from parents’ well-meaning advice, snippets of TLC shows, and excerpts from the Dr. Spock book that drifted back and forth between our nightstands. But somewhere along the line, probably around the time I got pregnant with Abby, the rules started to unravel a bit. And now that Claire’s almost two, we’ve relaxed some of them to the point of complete disregard.

Surely we’re not alone here. In an effort to ease the guilt of other parents who have misplaced (or shredded) their own rule books, allow me to slip into my virtual confession booth and share a few of our everyday sins:

• Our kids have TVs in their rooms. {{GASP!}}. Yes, it’s true. When Savannah was a baby, we never would have dreamed of doing this, but now she and Abby both have Tinkerbell TV/DVD combos on their dressers. I rationalize this decision by reminding myself that they don’t have Cable access, and that we have full control of the movies they’re watching, but that doesn’t erase the fact that we’re setting a lifelong precedent here. Nevertheless, there’s nothing like snuggling under the blankets with Abby to watch “Annie” for the five thousandth time, or hearing Savannah’s giggles as she takes in yet another Hannah Montana episode. I also take comfort in the fact that my brother and I were raised with little to no TV limitations, and we both seem to have a healthy amount of active brain cells.
• We let them go to bed with their TVs on. The plot thickens: after our nighttime story, we’ve fallen into the habit of letting Sav & Abs put on their respective movies of choice (with the volume turned waaaay low) before slipping out of the room. Yes, even on school nights. At first, we worried these nightly viewings would keep them up till the wee hours, but in most cases they’re sound asleep within 30 minutes, when we slip back in and turn their TVs off. Our bedtime routine has magically gone from a 90-minute, tear-filled drama to a quick and painless drifting into dreamland.
• We are short-order cooks. In a perfect world, the contents of all of our plates would be identical, and the kids would happily chow down on grilled chicken, broccoli, and potatoes. In reality, trying to force them to eat exactly what John and I are having has proven to be a recipe for disaster. Yes, I know it takes persistence and consistency, and I know all about the strategy of refusing to give them snacks or sweets after dinner in hopes that they’ll give in later. But after a long day of work and a busy evening ahead, sometimes I’m just too selfish to sacrifice the precious peace and camaraderie. If I have to choose between a nasty stalemate and a couple of happy kids eating their favorite oatmeal or peanut-butter sandwich, I’ve got no problem tying on my proverbial apron.
• Claire still drinks from her ba-ba. Yes, she’s 18 months now, and yes, I know the doctors recommend switching to sippies after a year. But before nap or bedtime, there is simply no replacement for the bottle, and I have no reservations about letting her suck away. After all, this is our last baby, so I’m in no hurry to abolish the nipples just yet.
• We use the bathtub as a babysitter. Before you reach for the phone to call Social Services, let me clarify: we never leave the kids unattended in the bathtub. That said, I have been known to stick ‘em in the suds and let them play while I putter around the bedroom folding laundry, watching TV, chatting on the phone with my girlfriends or Grandma, and otherwise enjoying a sacred 20 or 30 minutes of relative peace and quiet without anyone tugging on my clothes or trying to climb up my leg. More often than not, the kids have to remind me to wash them when they notice their hands and feet pruning up. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been known to snap a few pictures and share in the laughs when Savannah makes a bubble beard or Claire wears a wet washcloth as a toga, but for the most part, I’d prefer to sit and polish my toenails than kneel on the floor and play with rubber duckies.
• We lie to our kids. Not about anything that will jeapordize their safety, self-esteem, or sense of identity (at least we hope). Our lies are more along the lines of:
  • “Sorry, sweetie, the swing is broken.”
  • “We’re all out of lemonade.”
  • “That’s not the ice-cream truck, it’s my new ring tone.”
  • “If you don’t stop crying and sit in your seat, the waiter is going to come and take you to the bad kid room.”
  • “Of course I want to play Candyland for the tenth time today!”

  I could go on (and on, and on), but I think I’ve already given the jury of Motherhood Court plenty of evidence to convict me. Before they hand down my sentence, though, I want to add to the record that these broken rules have helped to preserve my sanity and make me a calmer, happier mother, which in turn benefits my children. Flawed logic? Maybe. But I figure pleading guilty will buy me a little mercy…