Parenting Fail

Actual conversation with my 4-year-old daughter, C., on the way to preschool:

"Mommy, remember this old Jonas Brothers song? 'Vereh superstitious, writing's on the waaaaall ...' "

"Nononononono. That's not theirs. A man named Stevie Wonder sang it first."

"No, he didn't."

"Um, yes, he did. That song was written before they were even born. It's a very old song."

"(Sigh.) No. They sang it in a video. Remember?"

And then I launched into a semi-hysterical recounting of Stevie Wonder's life and times, which surely changed her mind. When I told my friend M. what happened, he suggested I buy "Songs in the Key of Life" immediately and pipe it into her room, then repeat with "Innervisions" and "Talking Book."

I hadn't planned on conducting an intervention between swimming lessons and play dates this weekend, but C. has left me no choice.

A Nice Photo I Took

For about an hour yesterday, I was so angry with my son, who was being as difficult and argumentative as he has ever been. It was one of those days when I wondered why someone like me, a control freak who who always wants to seem "appropriate," wound up with a kid who smells fear and kicks it around like a soccer ball. And then I took a look at this picture of him with a friend, which reminded me of how sweet and downright charming he can be. It's a package deal. I guess a picture really is worth ... don't make me say it.

Road Trip, With Children

After four and a half hours in the car, with many (many) bathroom breaks along the way, we made it to Atlanta without anyone being tossed out of our moving vehicle. Somewhere between Tifton and Macon, I wasn't sure it would be possible.

How did my mother take three children - me, my brother and sister - on road trips without killing any of us? Could we have been as petty, argumentative and just plain annoying as my children were after about 90 minutes in the back seat? I know the answer is yes, and I ought to call her right now to apologize.

It's partly our fault - that is, mine and my husband's. We didn't bother charging up the portable DVD player, figuring that some books and a fully juiced iPod would keep them sane. That was wildly optimistic. Books? Why read when you can beg to hear "S.O.S." again? Once boredom set in, our daughter decided to test how far she could stretch her arm without actually touching our son, which, of course, pissed him off. Eight-year-olds aren't known for taking the high road, so after about 10 minutes of this, he swatted her a little harder than he needed to. Which led to howling and shouts of recrimination. Which led to parental threats to "pull this car over and make someone VERY sorry." There's a reason this scenario is a cliche.

People my age are fond of saying that children don't need to be distracted from the journey of travel, and that "we managed just fine without movies on the road." Yeah, but we "managed" because the technology didn't exist. Sometime in the mid-'80s, I finally got a Walkman, which I used to drown out my much-younger siblings' prattle and my mother's gospel sing-a-longs with my Aunt M. They are lovely singers, but back then, I just wanted to hear lots of Wham!

Anyway, we made it. Now all we have to do is drive back.

Valley Of The Dolls

One of my favorite things to do lately is to eavesdrop on my daughter while she plays with her Barbies. It's increasingly apparent that C.'s toybox is a cauldron of melodrama that would put "The Hills" to shame.

I got roped into a round of Barbie Theater this evening, and here is what went down: There are three main players, all female, who appear to be related and living under one roof. There are many, many arguments over dresses, territory and household responsibilities. The Alpha Barbie was naked for some reason, so I created a makeshift, one-shoulder dress out of a black knee-high. I thought the look was very Donna Karan, but the dress was immediately deemed "kind of stupid." C. insisted that this wasn't her opinion; she was merely serving as the voice of Alpha Barbie's disapproving (and passive-aggressive) sister. She conveyed this information with a straight face.

Shortly thereafter, the lone Ken doll entered the picture. When I asked C. why his shirt was missing, she said it was because "he is working out." I should point out that Ken was also clad in purple knickers and draped in gold, plastic beads. (My daughter has not yet figured out that a pretty male doll who likes to work out while wearing beads is not interested in dating Barbie, not that there's anything wrong with that.) Alpha Barbie then proceeded to depart on a date with Ken, but not before taking a parting shot at the left-behind Barbies as "losers." More squabbling. Finally, mercifully, Ken was ditched and the three Barbies declared a truce over imaginary pancakes.

I, for one, am emotionally drained.

Potty Mouth

While I make jokes about my kids being little demons, they're generally polite and respectful. More than once, people have commented on how polite and articulate they are. They have their moments.

For the most part, I think my husband and I have modeled good behavior. We're not the Waltons, but we don't drop f-bombs willy-nilly when they're within earshot. Usually.

After years of working in newsrooms with colorful journalists, &%$* became my word of choice when computers crashed, stories broke at 6 p.m. on a Friday, or other deeply unpleasant things occurred. Even now, it slips out when whole cartons of juice spill or I realize, halfway to the office, that I've left my laptop at home.

Anyway, we were at Borders today when my daughter announced she was ready to head to the children's section. I was in the middle of browsing and told her to wait. That's when I heard her sigh and mutter &%$* under her breath. This wasn't an innocent mimic routine. Her delivery was so perfectly world-weary that the twentysomething hipster to our right turned and raised an eyebrow. It's one thing to hear your kid repeat something sketchy, but quite another to hear them do so with style.

Of course, I was mortified and delivered a stern "don't say that again" talking-to before beating a path to the "new in paperback" table.

This happened with my son when he was about 5, but it was much, much worse. He showed off his new vocabulary word in front of my mother, who, despite having cursed liberally when I was growing up, was shocked.

Thanks, kids. Way to sell Mom out.

Raising a Music Snob Comes Back To Haunt

During a "Fresh Air" interview last year, Nick Lowe made me laugh out loud with his observation of overreaching, hipster parents. I'm bungling the quote, but here's the gist of what he said: "You hear these people saying, 'My 1-year-old loves The Clash.' No, they don't!"

How about 8-year-olds?

I'm one of those parents who decided early on that I wasn't trading in my Beck CDs for Barney or Kidz Bop. If you're riding in a car that I paid for, I'm in charge of the playlist. The only problem is that my son is a bit of a tyrant when it comes to the iPod. And it's my fault, because I cultivated his music snobbery very early. With the exception of Dan Zanes and They Might Be Giants, he has never listened to "children's music" at home. I think he might turn out to be one of those guys who chooses girlfriends based on whether they like Sigur Ros or Al Green.

Even before I've cranked up the car, he's ready with his list of musical requests. And lately, there have been morning playlist skirmishes. I mean, I'm not friggin’ Rick Dees.

"Can you play that na-na-na-na song? I wanna hear that today." (That would be Beck's "E-Pro.")

"No, I want to hear something else." (Cues Nancy Sinatra.)

"This is boring!" (Pouts)

"Too bad."

"What about 'The Pretender?' Please?" (Whines)

"No. This is my car, not yours."

"You never let me do anything! It's not always about you."

"Be quiet so I can hear, thanks." (Defiantly turns up volume.)

I don't have this problem with my daughter, but that's because she doesn't care. Jon Brion? Fine. Outkast? Sure, whatever. Unfortunately, I think she's being influenced by her dad, whose tastes lean toward urban contemporary. Worse, he is fond of Nickelback. Do you see what I'm up against?

So while I admire my son's strong musical opinions, they're annoying. Which is something we have in common.

But at least he doesn't like Nickelback.