Friends with Kids

Now that so many of my friends are starting to have kids I’m realizing just how big a responsibility raising a child actually is. Not that I wasn’t at least a little bit aware from having been a child myself, but there’s something about seeing the people you got drunk with at parties in college now holding small human beings that really drives it home. Wow so you’re responsible for an actual living person now? Remember when we rocked that epic game of flip cup back in ’03?

I guess when you’re a kid you just think of your parents as having always been responsible adults. You never picture them being young and stupid. They are in charge of you. They clothe and feed you. They keep you safe. They are nothing if not consummate professionals in childcare. And they have these rules.

My sister and I grew up under a very Bringing Up Bebe roof where certain rules were enforced without question. We ate what we were told when we were told. We had set bed times. We did work around the house to the point where now my sister and I have both come to realize that we can clean our apartments ten times better than the most expensive Manhattan cleaning service. Growing up we didn’t have cable or video games, and when I would mention to my dad that all my friends had televisions and phones in their rooms, his favorite line was always, “You can have your own phone and television when you have your own apartment.” Ugh, Dad. You suck.

In our house there was none of this autonomy at age four. Like, oh, you’re four so you should TOTALLY be calling the shots. Want to paint your nails? Sure. Piercings? Go for it. Be the expert on what you are willing and unwilling to wear and eat? You can definitely go to nursery school in your Halloween costume! Well, um, no, actually. I am four. I have absolutely no idea about anything. If it were up to me I’d eat nothing but peanut butter and fluff sandwiches, and watch cartoons, and wear a princess costume 24 hours a day and never sleep again ever. Because sleeping is boring and I hate it. I also hate reading. YOU KNOW NOTHING, GROWN-UP!

When I was four and dinner had, say, asparagus (that dreaded stalky vegetable my young palate did not at all prefer) I’d have to sit there until I finished it. And I oftentimes did, alone in my defiance for hours after everyone had cleaned their plates and left to go do more fun and interesting things like not sit by themselves at the kitchen table in the dark. It took a while, but before long I relented and came to realize my parents weren’t as stupid as I thought. Asparagus isn’t half bad. Maybe you guys aren’t totally horrible people after all.

At some point I turned a corner and moved on from those late night solo table sessions (if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em), and came to really appreciate the finer things. By the age of eight I had wholeheartedly embraced tres fancy dishes like coq a vin, stuffed artichokes, and vichyssoise. Oh you heard me, it was cold soup and I was LOVING IT.

For me and my sister, one of our friend’s favorite stories is when we recount the time our parents took us to McDonald’s as a punishment. Yeah. That happened. Our family didn’t go out to eat very often, but when we did our parents always took us to nice restaurants, even at a young age. If we misbehaved in the slightest we left immediately, were taken into the parking lot, chastised and driven home, sometimes before the meal even arrived. On one such occasion when I was about five or six we were out at a rather nice place, and for some reason I just didn’t want to be there. Like, at all. I thought being there was quite possibly the worst thing that could have ever happened to me. And so I did what you do in a situation like that, I created a scene, and (defiantly) refused to settle down. After a few minutes, and with my sister’s knowing glares for me to shut up before I ruined it for the both of us, that was it.

Boom. We were outta there.

I can remember sitting in the McDonald’s on that sticky plastic bench, those little hamburgers getting cold on the table, a somber net cast over us against the backdrop of the florescent overhead lights. My parents sat across from us just shaking their heads saying, “If you want to act up then we won’t take you to nice places.” I remember thinking like, OH MY GOD MOM THIS IS SO MEAN, but I held it together, biting into the hamburger defiantly (always defiance with me for some reason), while my sister just sat there looking really upset. Okay, she may have cried, but she was definitely giving me that older sister look I’d come to know well of, NICE GOING…VICTORIA. She wanted to kill me because I robbed her of her rightful dinner of veal scallopini.

Oops, my bad.

I know it sounds absurd, but my parents were right. I hated that hamburger, and I really didn’t want to be there. It was as though in that moment, with each bite of that greasy monstrosity my parents made me understand that while I’m a child they always know best. They were right about the food, and they we right that I would rather be in a nice place than a McDonald’s, and if I didn’t get my act together I’d never see the buttery majesty of escargot again.

It was like, holy cow. You guys are good.

Suffice to say we never had to go back to McDonald’s again, and thinking about it now it’s so interesting to me that my parents seemed to know how to handle those sorts of situations. While neither came from money, and both were from small towns (my mom grew up in place with a population of approximately 3,000 that had exactly one restaurant), my parents were insistent that me and my sister saw things differently than the limited worldview they had when they were kids. Maybe it was weird that I was watching Masterpiece Theater instead of MTV, and eating crepes instead of chicken nuggets, but it’s just how they wanted to play things. And I’m totally okay with it.

I get that I’m not a parent now, and I’m not convinced that if I ever am I’ll know inherently what to do. As an adult I look at my parents as though they were some sort of magical force ahead of their time. They weren’t perfect to be sure, but they had a clear idea of how they wanted to raise their kids that worked better than most I’ve seen. When I look at my friends who have children I just want to be like, oh my God you guys, HOW ARE YOU EVEN DOING THIS RIGHT NOW? I don’t know that I could. There seems to be so much noise these days that my parents were never subjected to. EVERYONE is an expert, with daily “Today” show segments, and blog posts, and New York Times articles about what you’re “supposed” to do and not do as a mother and a parent, honestly…I’m feeling overwhelmed for them just thinking about it.

I guess the point here is to remind my friends - you all know best, because your best is what’s best. And truth is no one knows what they’re doing. Parenting is messy and complicated and everyone is just winging it - trial and error, learning from how they were raised, remembering what worked and what didn’t. Sure there were moments growing up when I absolutely hated my parents. I even ran away once, (DEFIANTLY), getting only as far as the end of the street before realizing, hey wait a minute, actually my folks are pretty awesome, AND I think Mom is making chicken piccata for dinner, so…

To you newly (and some not-so-newly) minted caretakers I just want to say that while I know most of you are running on just about zero sleep hours right now, take heart. It’s all going to be okay. From what I can tell parenthood is a long road devoid of drinking games but I hear it’s just about one of the most rewarding things you can to.

And if one day you happen to find yourselves sitting in front of your kids as they cry into their happy meals, well, take a moment to smile. Because trust me when I say, they’ll thank you for it later.