The Time is Ripe to Be Spoiled Rotten
How much is too much?
“You need to eat a fruit or vegetable tonight with dinner,” I said to my 6-year-old daughter, feeling emboldened after a grocery run packed with produce. “Apples!” she yells. “I love apples! But… I need it shaved, cored and cut into pieces.”
Shaved? Ah, yes: peeled.
She watches me intently, shaving the skin, perfectly slicing sweet golden crescent moons onto her plate. “Yummy!” she declares while waiting for the full meal. “I can’t wait to eat my apple.”
I shit you, not, as this child scarfs spoonfuls of mac ‘n’ cheese, along with double bites of chicken tenders—and doesn’t even look at the fresh fruit (and only ingredient that dad feels relatively good about). She politely excuses herself from the table, as if the initial mandate and preparation events never existed. “But what about the shaving, the coring, the cutting?” I plead. “After all that!?”
“I don’t really like apples,” she shrugs as the sad clown looks on.
How about them apples.
The delicate dad dance between warden, teacher and peer is incredibly complex. Some of the time, I’m the enforcer—eat this, don’t eat that, brush your teeth, go to bed. But lately, I’ve also felt like an enabler. I give up, I give in, and then I’m somehow surprised at the outcome. This is where you remind me the definition of insanity.
On multiple occasions, I have been summoned by a screaming child, only be asked to find the TV remote while they’re sitting on the couch. Yeah, I piss and moan a little, but then I fold like origami. There’s a fine line between loving and spoiling, but I have no idea where it is. Here you go, sweetie pie.
How do I give them the best life possible while also disciplining them to be independent self-starters? No, this isn’t rhetorical. Please leave your answer in the comments below. But that’s just it! There is no secret sauce or hidden hack. Here’s help, but show responsibility. Here’s how you resolve problems, but stop pulling your sister’s hair. I catch myself so often treating my kids like peers, like evolved humans, forgetting they still fear monsters under the bed and steamed broccoli.
The final step to this vicious cycle is stubbornness. Today, I’m holding strong and won’t pick up any mess, be it toys, dirty dishes or day-old clothes. Hours turn to days and days into weekends and…Ugh, we have people coming over and it looks like hoarders live here. I’ll just do it real quick.
Back in the kitchen, same old story. I struggle to make one unified meal each day. I’m a line cook taking orders from each kid. Yes, I know they should all be eating the same thing. But my vegan daughter of yesterday won’t stop hounding Ballpark franks today. And my 2-year-old just wants to eat handfuls of…shredded cheese? I quit. I’m done. This is inevitable.
And yet, I’m back, every day, like the alley dog that just doesn’t get it. I’m dad and I love them and they’re awesome and life is a beautiful crazy rollercoaster. I'm proud they depend on me for sustenance and good conversation at the counter, similar to their neighborhood convenience store. They don’t pay their tab, but it’s a few minutes when I get their undivided attention and maybe a little of bit of playful banter. Their smiles remind me of their innocence, having no idea the challenges that come with parenting. I feel instant remorse for ever being frustrated.
The house is finally quiet. I climb into bed, pulling up the covers of another day in the books. I kept them alive and relatively happy, I remind myself, trying to celebrate the moral victory of complete mediocrity. My breathing slows, eyelids grow heavy, gently drifting off to sle…. “DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAD! DAAAAAAAD! I NEED WATER! WITH ICE! IN A PINK CUP! WITH A STRAW!
I fumble to the kitchen, committed to another decade of dad requests for three unrelenting but perfect little girls. At least they didn’t ask for an apple.