Tonight, I had bought Oscar an ice cream for an after-school treat. His friend was here, so I asked him to give her one as well, he threw such a tantrum, I was beginning to think I had actually asked him to give her his leg. So, his friend got an ice-cream, and he went without. His friend trotted off happily, while Oscar spent the next 45 minutes screaming “ice cream” at the top of his voice and saying, “I’m so hot mummy, if you don’t give me an ice cream, the house will burn down.” All of this while a mixture of snot and tears trickled down his face leaving streaks in the day’s dirt. I asked him to go and wash his face, he said he would if I promised he could have an ice cream after. Now, when a five-year-old learns how to use blackmail, you feel a mix of emotions. First of all, you’re cross, how dare they use your favourite parenting technique against you? Then you are actually, ever so slightly proud that he is following in your manipulative footsteps.
My stance on discipline has changed considerably since Oscar was born. During pregnancy, like all expectant mothers, I was going to do it right. No child of mine was going to make noise in public, or answer me back. Oh no, by golly, he was going to speak when spoken to, never watch TV, eat a diet entirely made up of organic vegetables and free range everything, we would sit down every day and do arts and crafts, and he would always be spotlessly clean. Then he was born…
I quickly threw all of my plans out of the window and basically went with the flow. For the first year of his life, Oscar called the shots. He was fed when he wanted feeding, he slept when he wanted to sleep, and he was awake when he wanted to be awake. Life was good, we were both content, and then he started speaking!
I’ve mentioned on more than one occasion that the first conversation you have with your child is an argument. I left out that basically EVERY conversation you ever have with your child is an argument. Not a day goes by in my house when I don’t resort to shouting like a deranged lunatic because Oscar has inexplicably “forgotten” how to put his pants on. Every now and then he breaks the tension with an act of comedy genius. The other day, I had a tight deadline, which meant I was working while Oscar was getting dressed. I asked him at least 30 times to get dressed, every time he replied with “I can’t, I don’t know how.” Finally, he came upstairs and said, “I told you I didn’t know how to get dressed, look what happened.” I turned around to be greeted by my son, the apple of my eye, with his shorts on his head and legs through the arms of his t-shirt. At this point we both collapsed into a heap of laughter, and I decided the deadline could be pushed back slightly.
It’s clear to see that a lot of Oscar’s inability to remember how to do anything comes from a need for attention, and that is something I feel guilty for every day. Sadly though, I have to work, and I am but one person. It’s very easy for people to comment and say such words of wisdom as, “They’re not young for long,” or, “Work can wait, you need to spend your time with your child.” Great, do you want to pay for the roof over our head and the food in the fridge? If I stopped working and lavished all the attention I had on Oscar, 24/7, it wouldn’t be long before we lost everything. Children are amazing at making you feel guilty for keeping them alive, but I hope that when Oscar is older, he will understand, in much the same way as I do now, that the only way you get anything out of life is if you work for it.
So, I’ve covered the reason for Oscar’s lack of obedience, and my excuse for my pretty laisse faire method of parenting, and I stand by them. One thing I am immensely proud of is that Oscar has manners. He’s like a robot with his ‘please’ and ‘thank yous’, and he never gets through a sentence without saying “pardon me” for trumping. Basically, I know I can take him anywhere, and he won’t show me up too much. Unless, of course, he’s been hanging around with Grandad. Then, as good as his manners are, he becomes pretty gross. When the two of them get together they’re like a pair of drunken teenagers. Grandad taught Oscar ‘Pull my finger’ just in time for his first day at nursery, and just recently he has taught him (although he denies this vehemently) to fart into his cupped hands, throw it at someone and say, “Have that!”
So, discipline, I’m rubbish at it. I beg, I plead, I use blackmail, and when all else fails, I shout. I shout loud. Almost every morning ends with Oscar crying and me hoarse. I don’t like it, I hate it, in fact, but I know I’m not the only one. I know that shouting is meant to cause deep psychological damage in later life (thanks to the Facebook Ritas and their “everyone is a shit parent apart from me” posts), but I don’t believe it. I don’t call Oscar ‘stupid’, and some days he bloody is! I don’t swear at him, I just want him to PUT HIS SHOES ON!!! I don’t smack him, I never would, and Oscar spends 90% of his day happy, laughing and enjoying life, and every single night, without fail, I tuck him into bed, we have a kiss and a cuddle, and we say how much we love each other.