Today I'm guest-posting on Tiffany Pitts' site -- check it out here!

http://tiffanypitts.com/wp/

Sticker Chart!

Today's post is a public apology to my littlest sister, M, for all the helpful parenting suggestions I gave her back when she became a mom first. As a big sister AND a veteran babysitter/camp-counselor turned grad student, I assumed the ability to change a diaper one-handed while naming all eight of Erikson’s developmental stages equaled Knowing Something Useful About Parenting. I cringe whenever I remember telling her something stupid like “he needs a consistent routine” or "use a sticker chart!” I bet her personal favorite was this little gem: “Just tell him NO.” Ha! I’m lucky she was too tired back then to drive to Seattle and smack me.

Me and M. She forgave me.

Don't worry, though, M, it’s all come back to bite me in the backside. My kid doesn't give a hoot about routines, and the last time I tried to use a chart he promptly took a red Sharpie and turned it into a graphic representation of a bloody and "epic" Alien vs. Predator battle to the death. As for “just say no,” anyone who’s been a parent more than five minutes knows that this is rarely as easy as it sounds.  It makes me giggle a little bit even now, thinking about it: Just tell them “no.” Right. THAT’LL WORK!! Cue hysterical laughter.

My coolio nephew who turns 18 this summer and whose mom wisely ignored
all my parenting advice. 

Bottom line? Parenting is HARD EFFING WORK, in ways you just can’t really imagine until you’re doing it all day, every day, 24/7. Step- and single-parenting, parenting multiples, parenting kids with special needs or illnesses carry additional challenges that are hard to understand unless you’re living with them. You don’t get to go home after this babysitting gig, and last time I checked there were no graduate courses on How to Get Your Six Year-Old to Keep His Pants On in Public. 

M's daughter and my son The Destroyer of Sticker Charts.
(He's wearing pants in this pic I SWEAR!!)

So, on behalf of M, who was too sleep-deprived to tell me to shove it, I say to my younger, know-it-all, pre-mama self: "If you are not a parent, or a professional kid-ologist of some kind, consider -- just consider -- that you might not fully understand what we're going through, or know how to solve our kid-related problems (e.g., public not-wearing of pants). Then maybe just keep quiet. And refill the coffee."

Super Bowl Sunday: My Anniversary

Super Bowl Sunday has a special place in my heart, but not because I’m a football fan. Full disclosure: I don’t even know what a “first down” is, despite numerous explanations from friends over the years, starting with my first boyfriend and star ninth-grade quarterback, "G". You’d think I’d have listened to him, too, smitten as I was. But I guess that was part of the problem (the other part being that football is boring) -- I was too distracted by his dreamy brown eyes, or his arm around my waist, to hear anything but “blah blah ball, blah blah touch-down, blah blah blah game over.” If he’s reading this, he’s shaking his head and muttering “I KNEW she wasn't listening.” Sorry, G.

No, Super Bowl Sunday is special because it’s the anniversary of my move to Seattle in 1992. I had chosen that day specifically and timed my arrival for during The Big Game so that the city traffic I was so terrified of would be at its lightest. I was following my best friend, who had already moved to the city, but mostly I was fleeing Spokane and an ex I still pined for (let’s call him “Bono”). I was desperate to get over him and feared that as long as I was within a 50 mile radius I might well end up on his doorstep at 3am some morning sobbing and begging him to take me back. In a way, you could say I moved 300 miles across the mountains to save my dignity. It was worth it.

Today I’m still friends with Bono (AND his wife, who is lovely) and the heartache I thought I suffered at his hands is an embarrassing memory, a childish affectation, like being caught playing with Barbies when you know you’re too old for dolls. The heartbreak that drove me to Seattle turned out to be nothing compared to what would come later, after I’d settled into and fallen in love with my rainy new home.

But on Super Bowl Sunday in 1992, I hadn't made those mistakes yet. I hadn't yet sacrificed independence and creativity for drama and depression. When I drove across the I-90 bridge that afternoon, my old green Honda bursting with the essentials -- clothes (mostly black), books (mostly Dylan Thomas), music (mostly The Cure) -- I might have been romantic and naive, but I was also fresh, new, hungry. I sailed through the nearly-deserted Mount Baker Tunnel that day and emerged below the King Dome and the city skyline awed and breathless with my own bravery. It’s that version of myself I remember today, the girl who knew she was out of her league and outside her comfort zone but who was determined to stake a claim here anyway. 

Happy Anniversary, Seattle. Here’s to the next twenty-three years.