NUTS IN THE HENHOUSE

Why We Suck at Parenting

Do you really want to know what your kids think?

I started raising my kid in the era of letting children have their own voices. My generation wasn’t going to act like our parents, or their parents before them.

Our style of parenting would mean our children would never be assaulted with the words “because I said so,” or “children should be seen but not heard,” or the oppressive “because I am older, bigger, and stronger and I pay the bills.”

Our generation of parents was not going to repeat that cycle of silencing opinions and quashing free spirits. We were going to stand on the mountain of righteousness and be the emotional superiors of our parents.

Our parents were horrified when they observed our parenting techniques. They said we were out of our cotton-picking minds. We couldn’t control our spawn any more than Sigourney Weaver could control that alien ripping its way out her abdomen. We were letting the nuts run the henhouse.

While they observed our exceptional children emotionally and intellectually expressing themselves, our parents looked us in the eyes and said, little kids little problems. Big kids big problems. They claimed we were raising lazy, spoiled, entitled monsters. They said, don’t say we didn’t warn you.

Our parents shuddered when they found out our children were paid to do chores. They’re part of the family, our parents said. They shouldn’t get paid to do family work. That’s their contribution.

Our parents told us we were fucked.

Our parents were horrified when they found out our generation gave our children salaries with benefits to read, do homework, and finish their vegetables. What’s your long game? Our parents asked us. What kind of life are you preparing these little people for?

Our parents called our children, “precocious.” We laughed in their faces. HAHA! We told them precociousness was no longer an insult to children or a mechanism designed to shame parents who let their children express their opinions and emotions.

We told our parents that precociousness was now analogous to potential. It was seen as intelligence. Precocious children, who were once ostracized as spazzes and bratty children, were now perceived as future leaders and company heads.

These so-called precocious children, who were once medicated and sent out to pasture, were now seen as peer influencers who would one-day hula hoop on their hoverboards to work and skateboard into their corner office.

Our parents told us we were fucked. They might have been onto something.

Since the beautiful young age of three, because our son was monumentally verbally gifted, we included him in family decisions. If he didn’t want to go out, we didn’t go out. If he didn’t like spinach, to hell with spinach. If he said we were racist, homophobic, ancient-ass mother fuckers, we considered his opinion a valid point of view.

Our verbal genius expressed himself like he’d read Noam Chomsky in utero. His eloquence, empathy, and deep dives into his intellect were part Friedrich Nietzsche, part Brené Brown, and part Mahatma Gandhi. His pre-school teacher swooned. I’ve never seen anything like it, she said.

What in the hell were we thinking?

Everything is a two-hour conversation. Every decision must be deconstructed, debated, and judged for social consciousness and language equity. Nothing is just said. Every word is dissected and analyzed under a Hubble microscope.

What I would pay for a because I said so right about now. I would liquidate the college fund for because I pay the bills to work as a viable threat in my mommy arsenal. But threats have no home here. We’re equals.

This brings us to today. I didn’t sign my son up for camp because he didn’t want to go. He pleaded, let me just have my summer.

Now there’s this professional whiner roaming the hallways like a possessed Ancient Mariner with his glittering eyes telling me he’s bored. I’m soooo bored, mom. I’m soooo bored, mom. I’m soooo bored, mom. I’m soooo bored, mom. I’m soooo bored, mom.

Honey, I gotta work, I tell him. You need to entertain yourself.

I don’t need you to entertain me, mom, he moans. I’m fine with being bored. It’s just all my friends went to camp. I wish you would have signed me up for camp.

You said you didn’t want to go to camp, I whined back. I begged you to go to camp. I said this would happen.

Why did you listen to me? he whinebutted. I’m a child. Why didn’t you just make me go to camp? You’re the mom.

Voices. Why did I raise my son to have a voice? I’m such a fool. Why didn’t I bully him into submission, bombard him with repetitive sayings, and let him bitch about me in therapy when he’s in his thirties?

Mom, he said this morning. I wish you were one of those parents who made me do things when I was little, so I would automatically do them now. Like, tell me I had to go to camp, even though I didn’t want to. Why can’t you be that kind of mom?

I was once one of those people who wanted my child to have a voice. I was compelled to prove definitively that children, given voices, would need less therapy, drink less, think more, and evolve exponentially. But I was wrong.

Our kids all have voices now, but that only means we need to talk to them about everything. All the time. In-depth. WANTED: Someone who doesn’t mind talking to a genius all day every day about everything. QUALIFICATIONS: Has ears.

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