Trailer:
When the stakes are high, we forget everything the books say about good parenting.
I hate those other mothers. The ones who always do the right thing – who live and quote from the good book of mothering – who turn their noses down at the rest of us as if to say You know better than to put cheese on his vegetables. You know better than to let him sleep in a wet diaper. You know better than to breastfeed at the salad bar.
When I was a kid there was no need for bribery and somewhere there are seventy-eight splintered wooden spoons that can attest to that. When I became pregnant I swore I would never put up with an unruly child. I also swore I wouldn’t gain one unnecessary pound and somewhere there are six thousand empty Twinkie wrappers that are calling me a liar.
I resorted to bribery almost as quickly as I went from the NO TV EVER! Rule to the no TV between 4 and 5pm because that’s when my shows are on Rule. Sort of like my chocolate addiction, it was just a little bit at first. Please sit with Great Aunt Edna and I will let you play outside. Please wear this cotton jumpsuit with the matching bonnet and I will buy you a water gun. Please don’t tell Daddy I accidentally left you out front of the post office because I got distracted by that cute sweater in the store window.
At the time of this story I had sworn never to bribe my child again (at least not in public.) I was holding two-year-old Junior in the middle of my cousin Fern’s wedding in little white picket church about a mile and a hair past nowhere. It was two-hundred degrees and we were crammed into pews that were made back when people were half the size they are now. I was saying a silent thank-you to the stained-glass Jesus for getting us through the service without incident. We only had five minutes left.
We had made it through the bride’s dance down the aisle singing Shania Twain’s From this Moment into her flower encased microphone which Junior drooled over, like he does over anything he can’t have – like the remote control, the car keys, or Uncle Enid’s special occasion dentures. I sweetly told him “no, no” and it worked! I’m thinking of writing a book on parenting.
We made it through the angry wedding coordinator whose husband just left her for a Patty Duke impersonator, muttering obscenities while she straightened bow ties and adjusted flowers. We made it through forty-seven variations of Annie’s Song on the guitar by my cousin Chester, and Mr. Bentley’s hairpiece that had shifted mid-ceremony and dangled beside Junior like a scalped squirrel.
Four more minutes….And he notices the hat - Bertice Merriweather’s hat that weighed more than she did - that bobbed up and down to the rhythm of her snoring head. The hat covered with doves and tiny cherubs – one of which seemed to be whispering touch me. And suddenly Junior gets that look. I’ve seen that look. I saw that look before he flushed my bathrobe down the toilet. I saw that look before he decided to play doctor with my eye lash curler and the cat. You know the look. It’s the look that tells you the stakes have just been raised. That says you’d better pull out your trump card because he’s ready to strike. That look that says he’s about thirty seconds away from a meltdown. Every fiber of my being shouted, BRIBE HIM. FAST! So I started whispering bribes in his ear like an auctioneer.
He didn’t want his pacifier. He didn’t want his juice. He didn’t want my wedding set or my gold-plated watch. He didn’t want the sucker covered in hair from the bottom of my purse or the half-empty airplane bottle of tequila. He wanted that hat. He was holding out for the good stuff. His lip started to quiver. I promised him a pony. I promised him he could sleep in our bed until he was fifteen. I promised I would never show his future girlfriends the picture of him naked in the tub. My palms were starting to sweat and I was getting dizzy. My kid was about to ruin this wedding as only my kid could. I swear the stained-glass Jesus was smiling.
I knew this was going to happen right when we sat down. I knew he would want to touch that hat. I had tried to get Bertice Merriweather to move up a row – just one row and then Junior wouldn’t be tempted. But Bertice wouldn’t move – couldn’t move – because her son had told her he if she stayed in her seat and didn’t move, he’d drive her to Garnet to get her corns shaved. Bribed her, he did! Of all the nerve.
Her son needed her to stay there because his girlfriend said she wouldn’t come to the wedding unless his mother obeyed the restraining order. And the girlfriend wasn’t going to come but the bride said if she’d stand in as a bridesmaid for her sick cousin Lolita and wear the lime green chiffon dress she would host a candle party at her house. And the bride really needed her to stand in because her mother had said the missing bridesmaid would make a gap in all the photos and if she filled that gap with somebody else she would promise not to drink too much at the reception and do her impression of Joan Rivers in a windstorm – though it was funny. Turns out the web of bribery was thicker than the kudzu surrounding that church.
I was running out of tricks. I pulled out my last card. I wasn’t thinking. He had me up against the wall. I offered him the house. Yes, I promised him the house. And he stopped. Turned around. Looked at me. And smiled. I didn’t hear a peep for the rest of the ceremony. My son had his price. He could be bought. I’m not sure he’ll ever cash in his chips. But I have a feeling he will hold it over me for the rest of my life. It was not my proudest moment I’ll admit. So much for winning parent of the year. But like anything else in life I remind myself that parents aren’t perfect. We’re just trying to make it through one day at a time doing the best we know how. But we mean well, and that’s what counts. Thanks for letting me share one of my moments of weakness. And, please, don’t tell the other mothers.
When I was a kid there was no need for bribery and somewhere there are seventy-eight splintered wooden spoons that can attest to that. When I became pregnant I swore I would never put up with an unruly child. I also swore I wouldn’t gain one unnecessary pound and somewhere there are six thousand empty Twinkie wrappers that are calling me a liar.
I resorted to bribery almost as quickly as I went from the NO TV EVER! Rule to the no TV between 4 and 5pm because that’s when my shows are on Rule. Sort of like my chocolate addiction, it was just a little bit at first. Please sit with Great Aunt Edna and I will let you play outside. Please wear this cotton jumpsuit with the matching bonnet and I will buy you a water gun. Please don’t tell Daddy I accidentally left you out front of the post office because I got distracted by that cute sweater in the store window.
At the time of this story I had sworn never to bribe my child again (at least not in public.) I was holding two-year-old Junior in the middle of my cousin Fern’s wedding in little white picket church about a mile and a hair past nowhere. It was two-hundred degrees and we were crammed into pews that were made back when people were half the size they are now. I was saying a silent thank-you to the stained-glass Jesus for getting us through the service without incident. We only had five minutes left.
We had made it through the bride’s dance down the aisle singing Shania Twain’s From this Moment into her flower encased microphone which Junior drooled over, like he does over anything he can’t have – like the remote control, the car keys, or Uncle Enid’s special occasion dentures. I sweetly told him “no, no” and it worked! I’m thinking of writing a book on parenting.
We made it through the angry wedding coordinator whose husband just left her for a Patty Duke impersonator, muttering obscenities while she straightened bow ties and adjusted flowers. We made it through forty-seven variations of Annie’s Song on the guitar by my cousin Chester, and Mr. Bentley’s hairpiece that had shifted mid-ceremony and dangled beside Junior like a scalped squirrel.
Four more minutes….And he notices the hat - Bertice Merriweather’s hat that weighed more than she did - that bobbed up and down to the rhythm of her snoring head. The hat covered with doves and tiny cherubs – one of which seemed to be whispering touch me. And suddenly Junior gets that look. I’ve seen that look. I saw that look before he flushed my bathrobe down the toilet. I saw that look before he decided to play doctor with my eye lash curler and the cat. You know the look. It’s the look that tells you the stakes have just been raised. That says you’d better pull out your trump card because he’s ready to strike. That look that says he’s about thirty seconds away from a meltdown. Every fiber of my being shouted, BRIBE HIM. FAST! So I started whispering bribes in his ear like an auctioneer.
He didn’t want his pacifier. He didn’t want his juice. He didn’t want my wedding set or my gold-plated watch. He didn’t want the sucker covered in hair from the bottom of my purse or the half-empty airplane bottle of tequila. He wanted that hat. He was holding out for the good stuff. His lip started to quiver. I promised him a pony. I promised him he could sleep in our bed until he was fifteen. I promised I would never show his future girlfriends the picture of him naked in the tub. My palms were starting to sweat and I was getting dizzy. My kid was about to ruin this wedding as only my kid could. I swear the stained-glass Jesus was smiling.
I knew this was going to happen right when we sat down. I knew he would want to touch that hat. I had tried to get Bertice Merriweather to move up a row – just one row and then Junior wouldn’t be tempted. But Bertice wouldn’t move – couldn’t move – because her son had told her he if she stayed in her seat and didn’t move, he’d drive her to Garnet to get her corns shaved. Bribed her, he did! Of all the nerve.
Her son needed her to stay there because his girlfriend said she wouldn’t come to the wedding unless his mother obeyed the restraining order. And the girlfriend wasn’t going to come but the bride said if she’d stand in as a bridesmaid for her sick cousin Lolita and wear the lime green chiffon dress she would host a candle party at her house. And the bride really needed her to stand in because her mother had said the missing bridesmaid would make a gap in all the photos and if she filled that gap with somebody else she would promise not to drink too much at the reception and do her impression of Joan Rivers in a windstorm – though it was funny. Turns out the web of bribery was thicker than the kudzu surrounding that church.
I was running out of tricks. I pulled out my last card. I wasn’t thinking. He had me up against the wall. I offered him the house. Yes, I promised him the house. And he stopped. Turned around. Looked at me. And smiled. I didn’t hear a peep for the rest of the ceremony. My son had his price. He could be bought. I’m not sure he’ll ever cash in his chips. But I have a feeling he will hold it over me for the rest of my life. It was not my proudest moment I’ll admit. So much for winning parent of the year. But like anything else in life I remind myself that parents aren’t perfect. We’re just trying to make it through one day at a time doing the best we know how. But we mean well, and that’s what counts. Thanks for letting me share one of my moments of weakness. And, please, don’t tell the other mothers.
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