Could Someone Please Send Super Nanny?

When I was pregnant, I always envisioned a Norman Rockwell painting of parenthood.  I never, ever anticipated the scenario that I experienced this morning at breakfast.

Pregnant for the first time seven years ago, I knit booties (I really did), took prenatal yoga (ok, I only went once), and ate tons of salmon after I read a Swedish study suggesting that large quantities of salmon during pregnancy yielded healthy, calm children.  It was a lie.  This morning, my husband and I took our children out for breakfast.  I’m sure I’ve mentioned in the past that before we had children, I swore up and down that my kids would never take a pacifier (the youngest sucked on one 24 hours a day until she was nearly three) and that they would be gourmands from day one.  To my credit, my eldest did enjoy pate and brie cheese, a sliver of smoked salmon for breakfast here and there when she was wee, but she has not touched anything that is not white, cauliflower excluded, since she turned one.  The younger one only eats yams, and I worry that she is on estrogen overload and will be wearing a bra by kindergarten.  I digress.  Before these children arrived on the scene, I always imagined a Sunday brunch tradition like the one that I grew up with.  Immediately post-church and dressed to the nines in velvet and Mary Janes, my parents marched us out to the Country Club, reserved a banquet table in the corner  and the family enjoyed a civilized meal with friends.  My mother insisted that I put a napkin in my lap.  I cut my own meat, and sat while my parents and their friends talked about whatever they talked about and sipped cocktails.  We stayed until at least 3PM.

Now, imagine my shame when this morning we rolled out of bed, I didn’t even brush my hair but pulled on a ski hat instead, bundled up the kids and went down the street to the lowly Cafe 82.  Not a fancy place, but one where our children, who cannot remain still for more that 45 seconds are welcome.  Blissfully unallergic, my husband ordered up a giant omelette and the children begged for M&M pancakes with whipped cream.  After much negotiation, many bribes and copious tears, I convinced them to have oatmeal and eggs.  The negotiations yielded a hot chocolate on the side.  Within minutes, things fell apart.  The food arrived and everyone needed to go to the bathroom.  We went and returned only to knock over one of the hot chocolates.  Our oldest daughter refused to eat unless threatened, and my husband became so shrill that I had to ask him to quiet down because the old people across the aisle were giving us the evil eye.  At that exact moment, our little one decided to wear her sister’s bagel as a bracelet and then took it off, flinging it into my pathetic canteloupe half, contaminating my breakfast.  The girls argued over who got the remaining hot chocolate while my husband lectured on the finer points of etiquette and how we will NEVER be dining out again.

I suggested that we just get a babysitter for the afternoon and let her deal with it.

What happened my idyllic breakfast on the one day a week that I don’t have to bake or work?  Where was this patience that I always imagined I’d have, and why am I unable to speak in a whisper like the teachers in the Montessori school.  My wish is to remain cool, calm and collected in such chaos, but I just can’t.  I suppose this is because I’m human, and I am, therefore, hardwired to react.  Part of my pregnancy fantasy was that my discipline strategy would come directly from the library of parenting books that I read before the birth.  I imagined that I would calmly count to three, have a pretty “naughty” chair to use and that I would effectively implement time-outs to my advantage.  I do none of these things.  I have to remind myself that Norman Rockwell was a painter who transposed his memories of what it was like to be a child in a simpler time onto canvas.  I highly doubt that he was painting those pictures while dealing with an obstinent three year old.  Those parenting book authors are clinicians dealing in theories; they only implement such practices in 45 minute sessions in their offices, happily sending the parents out to do their bidding for the other 23 hours and 15 minutes of the day.  I know because I did exactly that for a year in social work school. I am certain that there are many parents who cope better than I.  I have seen them on the street and been jealous of their fine parenting skills.  However, I wonder how patient they are at the end of the day after dealing with tantrums, laundry, the dishes and a stomach flu.  I am willing to bet that they are about as patient as I was at the diner.

And so we left breakfast, everyone drained and grumpy, and I took the girls to the supermarket.  You can probably guess what that was like.  We have begun our day, counting the seconds until the babysitter arrives tomorrow morning.  That, people is reality.  And now I must leave the computer because the three year old has painted all over herself in the minutes it has taken to write this blog post.  Please say a little parenting prayer for me……..