Bad Parents, or Not just Any Given Sunday

So we had the complete and utter meltdown of diplomatic relations between our daughter and us on Sunday. You may be asking, what was the shot heard round the world? It was a shoe. Well, a pair of shoes to be exact. Shoes, I feel, have always been underrated in their role in diplomatic breakdown. I mean, shoes are SHOES and I think shoes are an integral part of your personality so if someone messes with your shoes it’s like messing with you. Not to mention the whole President Bush and the shoe throwing incident!

Also it is important to keep in mind when diplomatic relations break down, the last time everyone had some protein. Because we neglected to remember that our daughter had risen at six am and had gotten herself a bowl of cereal. Thus, at twelve pm, when the war started, she is ravenous. (This gives me pause about current crises around the world. Has anyone ever tried making everyone a sandwich with some chicken on it? Because people get REALLY angry and irrational without food and I’m just saying it could be worth a shot… not that I am naïve enough to think that the problems they are facing could be fixed with food, I am just saying that perhaps negotiations would go smoother if everyone was fed.) Anyway, wanting to be parents of integrity and intending to show that she could trust us and that our word meant something, (and because we still haven't figured out the food thing and because we are a little scared of the level of escalation and what that would look like in public) Alan decides to follow through with the threat that if she doesn’t change her shoes and her attitude we will not be going to see her best friends. We deliver the news after much deliberation. The tears come, the bargaining starts and we begin to think that we may have gone about it in the wrong way. Starting with, putting a consequence in place that not only punishes her but seven other people, including us who were looking forward to spending the day with our friends.

Our day now ruined, we embark on a walk. We discuss our failings as parents and how many years back we must have made our first error because such an epic war always begins years before. I think it can be traced back to my winning of the argument that I felt we could raise our daughter without spanking even though Alan and I had both been spanked and seemed to have survived. I decided that our children would be logical and we could always come up with creative ways to discipline without using spanking. Unfortunately, it seems, at times we are unprepared for the level of creativity required to come up with a new punishment every time diplomatic methods fail. Also, sometimes we underestimate the amount of illogical behavior a child can produce. We replay the last few weeks and realize we may have lost a few key battles which may have lead to the all out, guns blazing, war. This is what we are in deep discussion about when we notice that, up ahead, our daughter who is riding her bike, suddenly stops and dives into a ditch.

“Now what?” asks Alan with a sigh.

“Probably animal rescue…” I say, knowing that animal rescue is what would send my daughter into a dirty hole faster than anything. As we approach she motions angrily for us to quiet down.

“KITTENS!” she whispers, her eyes wild with excitement.

Sure enough, three little kittens are living in a storm drain. She and Alan begin trying to coax them out. I stand by, offering helpful hints like “Aww you just scared it!” and “Oh, shoot!” Finally, since I have been so helpful, they send me home for, now this is very important: “1. A box with a lid. 2. Milk. 3. Any leftover meat I can find.” I listen very carefully and head home. I find a clean box with a four sided lid, check. Milk with a bowl I don’t care about, check. And a container of the leftover chicken that, if you are following my blog you will remember, Alan forgot to put away and it sat out all night, check. I drive back and present my offering: Al says ‘aww you should have brought tuna…’ I say, ‘You didn’t say tuna. You said leftover meat, I thought tuna would have been good but you said leftover meat, you should remember this is my first “rescuing kittens scenario…”’ (I get a little snarky there at the end; please feel free to read it that way.)

Now, we have coaxed a kitten out with food (apparently they do like leftover left-out chicken so there!) and Amelia picks up the kitten by the neck and then drops it. It goes running into the bushes. Amelia freaks out but, like a true professional, she regroups and coaxes the next one out. This time she keeps hold and brings it to Dad who showers her with praise (I do as well while trying to back away with imperceptible steps. I should make a confession here that animals have always scared me. I blame it on not having pets growing up but it is probably just my distrusting nature. I mean, animals can turn on you in a second! Also, they were living in the drain pipe and as a self-professed germaphobe… well you see my dilemma.)

 Anyway, Alan then sees the box and says “Oh… this is not a good box, you should have brought a basket or something…” I then say, in a slightly more whiny voice than necessary “…but you didn’t say basket, you said box with a lid! So I went home and found a clean box with a lid.” He takes in my defiant face, nods and approaches the box. He attempts to place the kitten in the box and close all four lids. As it claws its way back out he mumbles “not the right box, shhh calm down… not the right box…” He finally succeeds in closing the lid on the terrified kitten who is now in the dark and sure he is being taken somewhere horrible. Amelia has coaxed the last one out of the drain pipe and brings it to Dad who praises her again and attempts to place it in the box with the first one. This causes the first kitten to claw its way out by digging its claws into Alan’s skin. Now he is trying to hold both and keeps yelling “NOT THE RIGHT BOX! NOT THE RIGHT BOX! NOT THE RIGHT BOX…MEL HELP!!” to which I respond (while backing away from the carnage) “What do you need?” he responds “Just help! I can’t…” Then he loses one, who skitters off down the street (I try and look like I am making a run for it while secretly hoping I won’t catch it)  “It’s the wrong box…” he finishes, still holding the frightened first one, bleeding profusely from multiple wounds on his forearms. We decide to go and get an appropriate basket… and rescue the other one still caught in the bushes.

In the end we have arrived home with two of the three kittens immediately named Marco and Gonzales by Amelia (which I find perfect because they BOTH liked the chicken with the jalapeños mixed in).  A little later, I find the two kittens sleeping on top of each other and promptly send Alan back out in the middle of the night to find the other one who is now alone. He comes home empty handed. I am not impressed and he is confused (because I have been so worried about the kittens up to this point). He explains that he tried but it was…dark and… the pipe is now… dark… because it is the middle of the night… All the while we are explaining to Amelia that we are not allowed pets in our rental to which she tries to put on a brave face. The next day Alan spends $75 on flea treatments, de-worming tablets, specialty kitten food and a litter box… because he says we definitely have to give them away…

Clearly we are parents who keep their word.