In considering what my biggest failure as a parent has been (so far), I would have to say it’s letting my youngest son be an asshole.
He’s not an asshole all the time, of course. In fact, most of the time he’s this awesome little dude who wraps me in kisses and giggles and grubby hand-holding – all the things that make little boys munchable. But he’s my youngest and last child. I may have breasfed him a little bit too long. I might have welcomed his warmth into my bed a couple nights too many back when I was a single parent.
Okay, so I spoiled him. But it was a spoiling from the heart, from love.
But the consequences have been notable. I can’t be sure that this is 100% my fault, of course – it’s always difficult to decipher where nurture ends and nature begins. But I do know that I’ve raised this little seven year old with a Hulk-like rage that comes out of nowhere. When he was four and spewing the f-bombs with the ferocity of chef Gordon Ramsey on Hell’s Kitchen it was kind of cute, but as he’s gotten older it’s become less so. I admit to not doing a whole lot about it except letting him know it wasn’t appropriate to use that kind of language, and to especially never use it outside the house, and NEVER please, please, please EVER at school or the dreaded “other people’s houses.”
But the more I think about it, the more it dawns on me that we all get that super angry as shit feeling sometimes, and wouldn’t it be nice to expel that anger and freak out occasionally without reservation or self-consciousness? Isn’t that a healthy thing? Sure, my son is seven years old and sometimes he’s an ass, but unlike most adults I know (myself included), he gets over his anger and frustration really quickly. He screams, slams his door, and then lays down on the floor and plays with some Playmobile. And slowly, as he plays, all becomes right in his world.
You know, on second thought, maybe he’s not an asshole after all. In fact, maybe he’s got it all figured out. The next time I feel enraged at the world and want to scream my head off and slam doors, I’m going to take a page from his playbook: I’m going to dig out the Barbie Dream House, lay on the floor, and pour a tiny thimble of wine. Because even if all isn’t right with the world – my world, my house, my life – at least all can be right and good with the Barbie Dream House world, right?
