There was a book review recently in the Boston Globe on A Nation of Wimps: The High Cost of Invasive Parenting by Hara Estroff Marano. The reviewer, Barbara Meltz, saw it as a spanking to the current generation of parents, for the emergent attitudes and values to protect your child at all costs from pain, discomfort or failure — a reprimand to the indulgent parenting style, the lack of limits, do no harm approach of Americans.
I doubt there is a need to read the book because I get the point from the title. But the review appeared the morning after a particular dinner time episode.
As it were, pushed to my own limits by my younger daughter, I shrieked the now tabooed words for any seemingly competent parent, “Shutttttt Upppppp!” Adele began to wail, spewing instant tears like some Peanuts character; and Rosie, the elder just looked at me with a raised brow insinuating, “What’s up with you?”
This all transpired after the question of the missing gift envelope with 50 bucks for the sitter who just graduated from college. She was to come by at any moment. Had Adele simply said her token, “I have no clue” it would have remained the May Money Mystery. Instead, she elaborated a long tale of who handled the card last, where it was placed, the smiley face colored on it and so on. This is the familiar discourse and rather commonplace scenario enacted in our house for missing objects, such stuffed animals, soccer cleats, hair brushes and my cell phone.
My head was spinning, feeling my own shudder at the timber of my voice, and yet a pragmatic part of me thought, “These kids need to know when they’ve pushed me to the edge." It was less about the money than it was about the high-pitched squealing, breathless diatribe, and incessant yelp yelp yelp of an 8 year old in full throttle.
I know other parents who take the chummy parenting role, befriending their child at every turn, talking over every issue as if a child has the cognitive capacity for abstract thinking. And you know what? They have the kids that are either anxious or stunningly entitled. “She’s a unique, sensitive child,” is what I hear. I give a lot over to genetics and disposition — god knows I had a feisty temperament growing up. I also swallowed many a dose of old fashioned discipline. Boundaries were clear.
When I was little I was often punished (I did not know about deploying the acronym “DSS” as an effective threat to my parents). Punishment consisted of a spanking here and there, no dinner, and being sequestered to my room where I developed a very lively imagination. But the worst by far was the cringing humiliation I felt when my mother reported my obstinacy to the neighbors or my best friend’s mom. Yet my mother’s limits were pretty clear and I eventually learned to navigate them, egg her on when I felt the battle was worth it, or occasionally run away for a few hours with my Raggedy Ann sleeping bad and stuffed leopard. I’d eventually sneak back in the house when my tummy rumbled. I think it was a safer time back then, or there was less access to the daily news about abductions and random madness, for I would not tolerate my kids running away for more than 30 minutes. On that point I’ll side with the overanxious modern parent.
Earlier I wrote that I worry that my daughters’ lives are relatively stress free — that while the girls are fortunate that no major life stressors have wreaked havoc on the household, I wonder how they might develop some more grit to deal with the inevitable disappointments, frustrations, and yes, even tragedies that will likely cross their paths — like the type of events that were sprinkled throughout my upbringing.
For now they will just witness their mother lose it from time to time.
