I didn’t have much adulting under my belt when I became a mom so it’s no wonder I made some parenting mistakes along the way.
Dude 1 was born just a few months after my 23rd birthday, a year after I graduated college, before DudeDad and I even thought about getting married.
Despite my inexperience, I had all of the ideas about what kind of mother I would be –I’d work, probably teaching and then possibly as an administrator, I’d lose weight easily, dress like a rockstar for sure, and be epically cool.
And, all of those things my parents did when I was growing up, those annoying things that made me scream LEAVE ME ALONE all top of my lungs, surly teen style through my slammed door while my Snoop D-O-Double-G blared about G-Thangs would have no place in my progressive household.
I wouldn’t moan about the light bill and technology and “kids today. “I wouldn’t have ridiculous curfews and silly academic expectations and requirements that we all eat breakfast together on the weekends and dinner together every day.
Now, don’t get me wrong, my parents were next level amazing, they were just, um, parents, and as a youth I was pretty freaking certain I could out parent them any day of the week.
Because I was going to be the parents The Fresh Prince and DJ Jazzy Jeff swore didn’t exist –I’d understand. So much. Maybe even everything. And my kids would adore me for it.
Only, yeah, no.
I mean, I was partly right –I for sure am cool, epically cool even, but if I’m honest, I grossly overestimated my knowledge of how to parent…
I mean yes, I am all over technology and I can hit the Quan and rap along to Fetty Wap in the car better than Fetty Wap probably can, but when it comes to real deal parenting, I still struggle. Fourteen years in and daily I am shocked and confused and pushed to my limits mentally and emotionally on a regular basis.
I still know so little. And I still make parenting mistakes like a noob from time to time.
But there are some things that I do know. Like that I don’t like peas, and all of the times my mother forced them on me did nothing to change that. They’re gross and I’d rather eat barf. I know that I will never have the body I had before kids and that all of my hours in the gym will likely never change that. I know that I will never know all of the things there are to know in this world. Nor do I want to. And I’ve reached a point in my life where I do a lot of what I want to, including things I said I never would.
Parenting Mistakes: 25 Things I Said I’d Never Do As a Parent
Yell about how much energy they are wasting.
Like, TURN OFF THE LIGHTS. GET OUTTA THE SHOWER. CLOSE. THE. FRIDGE. But, seriously. We have 19 lights in our house, not counting the basement, and I’m sad because I know that.
Negotiate with terrorists toddlers.
Bribe my kids with candy.
Bribe my kids with money.
Bribe my kids with electronics.
Bribe my kids.
But, you know what? Little humans can not be reasoned with. Large humans can barely be reasoned with. I’ve come to realize that my expectations were grossly inflated. Possibly even deluded.
Argue with a toddler.
They make some good points sometimes.
Say, “because I said so”.
Buy character shoes.
Because they are hideously ugly. Until you see how cute your kid looks in his light up Lightening McQueen sneakers smiling from ear to ear because he loves them so very much.
Serve cereal for dinner.
Not serve dinner at all.
And tell everyone that lunch was it and they can go ahead and eat cheese sticks and crackers if they’re so hungry.
Start stories with the words, “when I was your age we had to…”
Hide candy in my closet.
And under the sink in my bathroom. And in my car so I can eat it in my garage while people act off inside my house.
Spend more on my kids’ clothing than I do on my own.
Use my kids as an excuse.
Although sometimes it’s just the truth –no excuse necessary.
Buy juice boxes.
I have an official love hate relationship with juice boxes. They’re handy, but they spray EVERYWHERE.
Carry a diaper bag as a purse.
Carry my purse as my diaper bag.
Because I wasn’t ruining my awesome bag with any stick kid junk. Or am I?
Make a different dinner for every person in the house.
Including plain bread with plain pasta and French fries for my three year old because red sauce and butter and potatoes and chicken with “the black dots” known to normal people as pepper and green vegetables and orange vegetables and sauce that isn’t ketchup as well as food that touches and milk in a cup instead of a glass are reasons to try to kill yourself and everyone you love.
Wear yoga pants in public.
Wear maternity clothes when I’m not pregnant.
And maybe haven’t been for like 8 years.
Make empty threats.
Quit my job to stay home.
Turn on the TV so I could shower.
Or eat. Or take a moment to bring sanity back into my life.