While I wasn’t lounging on the beach this past week since our beach vacation got hurricaned out, I reflected on my stellar parenting skills.
Parenting skills that should be provided in hardcover format to every new parent.
They are why I am currently winning mom of the year, don’t ya know?
Really, they aren’t skills. Perhaps we should call them instances.
Yes. Let’s call them instances.
Instances in which it was clear that yes, in fact, I am a stellar parent.
She’s naked. All the time.
The circus prefers to frolic around in her birthday suit. And not just frolic indoors, but also on the front porch. And the driveway. Naked.
Two kids who had just moved in down the street stopped by one day. The circus opened the door naked.
Here’s hoping that mom had already embarked on Girl vs. Boy Anatomy 101 with their kids. Otherwise, I should have sent those kids back home with booze for their mama.
She has become a master at taking her clothes off in record time the minute after I put her clothes on. The kid can even wrangle herself out of a zippered and buttoned footed pajama in 10 seconds flat.
I let her pee outside. Wait, it gets better. Like a boy. But she’s a girl.
So this one isn’t totally on me. She saw her father peeing outside one day and decided she wanted to pee outside as well. Then she saw Uncle Nicky do the same thing and it only reinforced the need to pee outside. I’ve tried to teach her the ladylike way of peeing outside, yes I did just state there was a ladylike way of peeing outside, the pop and squat as I like to call it, but no can do. She prefers to strip down of all lower clothing, if she even has any clothing on at all, and let it fly.
I just go with it. At least she isn’t peeing her pants.
Now this isn’t really a big deal in our backyard or at the farm, where she insists on peeing outside.
However, when your genius cousin (seriously, she’s a genius) is hosting all her genius college classmates and genius professors at the farm for an event, it makes you look like the redneck family member when your kid stops, screams to undo her overalls, and wants to pee right there beside the college professor who has never been on a farm before.
Picking her up, trying to shush her and running to the actual bathroom doesn’t help matters, it only draws more attention your way.
So far, we’ve also marked our territory in the Dollar General parking lot, the side lawn of an Advance Auto Parts and a church’s yard. I did apologize to God on that last one.
I told her the bad guys stole her Play Doh.
Before the kid even emerged from her long stay in the womb, there was one rule already determined – there would be no Play Doh at my house. In my opinion…
Play Doh is of the devil.
Mama backed me up on this, so I felt like I was really making a great parenting decision before the kid was even born, therefore I was definitely getting started off on the right foot.
The circus finally discovered Play Doh when she started preschool. That was fine by me – I even bought the preschool Play Doh – but it never made it into my house – straight from Target to the car to school. We were clear of it at the house.
Until her third birthday.
When a friend of mine bought her a Barbie and Play Doh.
Play freakin’ Doh.
That was grounds for dis-friend-ment.
I quickly shoved the Play Doh under the couch and the kid didn’t find it for a month.
Sidenote: I also forgot about it. Otherwise, I would have hid it better.
And then she found it.
I told her she could only play with it outside. My front porch was soon sporting various colors and little bits of Play Doh was smushed in the rugs and every other crevice it could find.
So one day when she took a nap, I threw the Play Doh away. She asked where it went. At this point in her childhood, she had just discovered the Mickey Mouse version of The Three Musketeers and figured out what bad guys were.
So I told her bad guys took it.
I figured that would knock some fear or something of Play Doh into her.
I quickly had to recant and tell her that the birds flew away with it when Grunt Labor said she was now going to be terrified of going on her own front porch.
And there was that one time, I told her to quit dancing on the table like a stripper.
At about 1 1/2 years of age, the circus started going through this stage of climbing on every table in site – even at preschool.
So I did what any stellar mom would do, I told her to quit dancing on the table like a stripper.
It’s not like she really even comprehended what I was saying.
But she got down.
That time I handed her my beer label to substitute for a band aid.
In my defense, she didn’t have a boo-boo at all. She just shares the same fascination that I had with band-aids when I was a kid. I covered Strawberry Shortcake with them, she covers herself with them.
Also, I’m sorry about all that 20 year gunk you were sporting, Strawberry.
And it was Friday. After 5pm. And we were in the middle of a Prison Break marathon on Netflix. I just didn’t see a need to miss one single glimpse of Linc or Michael to fetch a band aid that wasn’t even needed.
The beer label did the trick.
I teach her why she shouldn’t go in the street alone by attempting to scare the shit out of her.
My kid is fast. Like I’ve almost had to throw myself in the middle of traffic to keep her from running out there fast.
I’ve told her a million times that she has to hold an adult’s hand before going in the road.
She doesn’t listen.
So I’ve resorted to discipline by way of terror.
I’ve told her if she runs out in the road, then she may get hit by a car and she would look like one of those animals we see in the middle of the road.
I think its working.
Before you try these techniques, please remember to proceed at your own risk and remember that not all moms can be as stellar as I am.
And before any of you call the Department of Human Services, please know that I do love my child dearly and she is well fed and clothed.
Well, clothed most of the time.
I feel as though she is having a very colorful childhood, no?
You know you don’t wanna miss any of this crazy.
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