In Praise of Lazy Parenting
Written By Brett Paesel
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Domestic Harmony
I wish I could say parenthood has awakened my dormant interest in cooking. But it turns out the interest isn't dormant — it's nonexistent. So in an effort to keep my kids healthy, I've stumbled onto the raw foods craze. True, Spencer and Murphy won't eat foods that touch each other, but they do eat tons of fresh strawberries, broccoli, and avocado. So I'm not just a mom who can't be bothered to sautee; I'm on the cutting edge of nutrition.
My laziness also extends to the other domestic arts. Instead of sewing the hems of my sons' pants, I staple them. And my housekeeping is, as my mother diplomatically puts it, "casual." I find it a Sisyphean nightmare, the toil of making beds that will just be unmade again. In the end, I do it halfheartedly, just because I don't want to slip in my mother's lexicon from "casual" to "shoddy."
But I can't face picking up toys that will simply wind up back on the floor. As a result, I've mandated "cleanup time" after dinner: The kids have to throw all of their toys in the appropriate bins in 10 minutes, and then they get their gummy vitamins. (Thank God for the gummy vitamin, with its candylike subterfuge.) I set the kitchen timer, and the boys run around picking up toys like it's an Olympic event. Their lucky wives are going to thank me.
Quality Time
You might think the TV would be a lazy parent's best friend. But I can't be bothered with the futile search for even one of the three remotes while the boys bicker over which show to watch. Besides, I find most children's TV shows cloying, badly acted, and illogically conceived (I know, it's probably just me). So we all listen to the CD player, which doesn't have a remote. True, the kids haven't a clue who Dora is — the Wanderer? Scientist? Supermodel? — but Spencer informed his first grade class during Black History Month that Aretha Franklin is the Queen of Soul. (Another proud moment.) Also, I don't have to turn down repeated requests for toys the boys have seen advertised on TV because they don't even know those toys exist. Maybe they would if they had more playdates.
As Spencer and Murphy have gotten older, they've found it increasingly difficult to fall asleep at 7:30. I, however, still need two or three hours to myself at night, precious childfree time to devote to my husband and Jon Stewart. So, instead of pushing their bedtime, I've created "Adult Time": The boys can stay up until 9, talking and playing quietly, as long as they don't bother me for anything more involved than a glass of water. "Adult Time" was initially enforced to serve my needs, but I've found the boys enjoy conspiring and giggling in their beds. Last week, I was delighted to be shooed out of their room when I came in to close a window. "No adults allowed," Spence said, looking up from an intense game of Sorry. I deferentially retired to the living room and a make-out session with my husband under the unknowing eyes of Jon Stewart.
On Accidentally Getting Some Things Right
As last summer was winding down, my friend Allison said her kids were dreading going back to school. They loved all the summer programs she'd signed them up for — the day camps and the baseball games. She'd taken her kids to the pool almost every day.
"Ah," I said, realization dawning. "You made it too fun for them. Most of the summer, my kids have been great at entertaining themselves, but this week I've found them rolling around on the floor, complaining of boredom. Every time I walk around them, I have to assure them that school is starting soon. They can't wait to get back."
Allison looked at me with new appreciation. Appreciation that I returned because I'm always filled with genuine admiration when I hear her enthusiastic tales of all the things she does with her children. (My favorite: the time she simulated a hurricane by taking a garden hose and spraying a village she and her kids had made out of toothpicks.)
However, her stories also make me want to take a nap. Allison is a terrific mother, and I tell her so often. But today I want to speak for a different kind of mother — the one who's still on the couch. Your devotion to your own well-being may benefit your children more than you know. It could be making you a happier, saner mother. You could be doing your kids a favor by giving them a chance to develop a solid sense of independence. In fact, you could even consider your laissez-faire approach an act of faith in your kids and their ability to figure things out for themselves.
But if saying all that sounds way too exhausting, forget it and go back to bed. Just remember to remake it when you get up. You don't want your mother to think you're "shoddy."
