Going parental: Getting started — Jewish guilt and the grab

Before we get to the part where I write about all the things you moms out there think but are too afraid to say, I thought I would take a moment to tell you a little bit about my childhood and the parenting style that gave birth to the genius that stands before you.

As a kid, I loved being outside. I grew up in a neighborhood with almost all boys. We played baseball using a taped up wiffle ball bat ^[1] and a tennis ball. Summers were the best. I wasn’t big on camp. Despite growing up in an area where most of the kids my age went to sleepaway camp, the idea of going to day camp was horrifying to me. Even at 10 years old I knew I lacked the temperament necessary to thrive in an environment where I was being forced to take orders from a 15-year-old high school kid. My sisters were older than that so if anyone was going to boss me around all summer, it was going to be them. It helped that I came from a family of old school European Jews. You didn’t send your kids away; you kept them close by. The whole sleepaway craze baffled my mother.

Who does that? Who sends their kids away for the summer? I don’t think so. You’re staying right here. Now go outside and ride your bike. Check in every 10 minutes so I know you’re alive, don’t make me worry all day like your sister does. I don’t need a heart attack today, alright ^[2]!?

Did I mention that we’re Jewish?

So here I am today, with a daughter of my own. I say things like, “because I said so,” and “if I have to ask you to get over here one more time,” and “wait till your father gets home!” Actually, I’ve never said that last one. That was just for you straight, married moms out there. I am neither straight, nor married, so I will just have to find another way to frighten my daughter when my words and actions fail to impress her.

My mother had some interesting methods of discipline. She wasn’t much of a hitter, despite growing up in a household, and during a time, where physical punishments were as common as coffee in the morning. Sure, we had the occasional shoe tossed across the room at our heads, but the reality is we probably had it coming. She didn’t really need to use the threat of physical violence very often because the mental game she had going was pretty intense.

Her main weapon: the arm grab. You know the one I’m talking about — where they grab you by the arm, and from an outsider’s perspective it just looks like a tight hold, but really what’s going on is that her nails are being dug into that thin, sensitive layer of skin under your arm. It’s excruciating… subtle and effective, but excruciating. I hope to master it myself one day.

Right now if I so much as raise my voice, my daughter is in tears. She’s incredibly sensitive so it’s not hard to get through to her when she’s misbehaving. Some of your kids, on the other hand… well let’s just say it’s time some of you learned the grab.

On that note, welcome to “Going Parental.” Weekly posts packed with completely unfiltered, unqualified stories about being a mother, loving and hating your kids, loving and hating your friends’ kids, and so on. I imagine comments dripping with disdain and I must say I look forward to them. I am an authority on absolutely nothing when it comes to being a parent. I simply am one. I receive my monthly Baby Center ^[3] updates so I figure I’m about as qualified as the rest of you to spew advice and share some funny moments.

What you won’t find here are answers to questions regarding, say, your child’s eating habits. “My daughter is the worst eater; she will only eat cereal and nothing else.” My answer to that would be stop feeding her fucking cereal. She’ll get hungry and eventually eat the food you put in front of her. Your daughter’s not the worst eater; you’re just really bad at feeding her. So yeah, with things like that, I’d stick to the pros. However, if you find yourself wanting to hit the kid at the park who just made your son or daughter cry, you’ve come to the right place. I don’t believe in hitting. It enrages me when I see kids hit each other or, even worse, parents hit their kids (in public — I mean, come on — do it at home). But that’s not to say that I don’t believe in hitting your kid if he or she hurts mine. It’s a double standard I’m comfortable with.

Going Parental appears every Thursday. Yeah, you’re welcome.