My kids will end up in therapy. I’m sure of it. To start with, they’re from New York City where people walk around with parrots on their bare heads and/or have tattoos that say “fuck” on their necks. They are taught to bustle by people in need and to avoid eye contact. So there’s that working against them.

They also have me as their mom. Don’t get me wrong, I actually think I’m a fairly normal person (despite, say, coming to fisticuffs with the elderly and teenage contingents of our population). I just think that having kids can bring out the worst, most unhinged versions of ourselves (and the best! But that’s not what I want to talk about today). And your parents’ unique craziness – well, that’s what lands you in therapy.

Part of my personality is that I try to tell it like it is. Sometimes this means I say things that others might consider un-motherly.  A friend recently (and possibly involuntarily) said “Aw, be nice” when she heard me tell my (7 year-old) kid “That joke wasn’t your best. Not that funny.” What I saw as honest discourse (and please note, the kid agreed with me), she saw as “mean.” This startled me.  So I started thinking about other things I say/do that might be….how do I put this…outside the realm of normal parental behavior.  I have come up with many, but for the sake of brevity/my own dignity, I have only listed a few.

Number one: I don’t like other people needing me. I don’t mean emotionally. That I’m okay with. I mean on an errand-boy level. My general ethos is “The less I need to do, the better” along with its partner “Do it your own damn self.”  This attitude, I have learned, does not always lend itself to children, particularly young children. I am mostly on the other side of having kids who need help with every little thing, and for that I am grateful. But when it comes to kids, there’s always something. They need you, or think they do. Sometimes it’s real. Sometimes it’s not; I sniff out the not and toss it right back at them.

Those things kids don’t like doing because they suck/are an enormous pain in the ass?  I don’t like doing them either. So when my kids ask for help I do not believe they need (i.e. Can you get me some water? Will you put my homework folder in my backpack for me? Can you cut this apple? Can you spread the cream cheese on my bagel?), they get some sort of variation of “I am not your servant” in reply. If they’re lucky I’ll also add, “oh, and actually, can you get me some water while you’re up?” Some might think this is overly harsh and that parents should help their kids when they can. I’m not one of them and my kids are intimately familiar with this fact.

Upside:  They are resourceful and know how to open a bottle of beer.

Number two: I have a “things must be in order” OCD which they have fucked with.  Gone are the days when it seemed every toy in our house migrated to/became permanent residents of the living room. But even though their stuff is back in their rooms,  I like to know there is order behind their closed doors. I also think kids should be responsible for keeping their rooms organized.

Objectively – if I can step away from my own crazy for a sec – they do a decent job.  They try to please me, they do. Even the crafty boy child, whose general mantra is “rules, schmules” does pretty well on the clean-up front, maybe even better than his older sister.

But my expectations are high. To help them avoid my OCD wrath, I have tried to teach them that like-things must be with their brethren – markers with markers, trains with trains. You catch my drift. They, it seems, sometimes do not.  Either because they don’t care with the same passion that I do (fail on my part); because they are trying to clean up quickly (understandable); because they don’t notice (epic fail on my part. Epic); or simply because they are normal human beings who make mistakes (whatever), there is not always a tyrannical-level order to their belongings. This is not okay as they have not-so-gently learned.

Walking into what others might deem a tidied room, I have screamed things like “This is what you call cleaning up?” Wire-hanger style, I have flung items out of bins saying, “Does this look like a costume?” or “THIS IS NOT LEGO,” tossing the offending object into a pile in the middle of the room for my children to sort appropriately when I have finished my tirade/it is safe for them to exist again. They have mastered that timing.

Upside: Boy child cried when he didn’t have time to put his legos away before school the other day. That’s what I’m talking about (that’s a joke, people, I felt bad).

Number three: I don’t really have a problem telling my kids they’re boring. Because sometimes they are boring. I will say,  “That’s not that interesting” as they tell me verbatim about a show they watched on TV or as they tell me – for the trillionth time – about something “cute” the cat did. I also say things like, “Only other kids want to hear stuff like this” or  “This is what your brother is for.” When it gets especially bad, I come right out and tell them, “I’m bored.” They roll with it (for now).

Upside: They know when they are actually saying something interesting. They are both pretty damn funny.

Number four: I have a similar attitude when it comes to telling them they are doing something weird/awkward. I was okay when my son spent months walking around with one ball-length bright pink glove on (think Cinderella meets Michael Jackson). If that was his style, respect. But headbands pushed abnormally low on forehead? Several necklaces piled on at a time to be “pretty”? Seventeen stuffed animals smushed into a backpack just “to have”for the trip to school?  These are the lines I draw. So I will say necessary and helpful things like, “Kids will make fun of you for that, trust me.” Or “That outfit? No. Just no.” or “Did you look in a mirror today?”  My view is, I’d rather they hear it from me than another kid  – who may actually be nicer about it than I am, but that’s not the point.

Upside: Unclear.

So these are my flaws/foibles/peccadilloes. My husband has his own set, though I’m guessing he doesn’t want me to be his spokesperson on that front.

But then there’s this. Recently, two of my sisters told me how they carefully, carefully chose a porcelain dog to give me as a college graduation present. This was in 1993 aka twenty-three years ago. They were 7 and 10 at the time. They approached me upon exiting the graduation ceremony (nervously, eagerly, they tell me) and presented me with their gift.  I took it and put it in my graduation robe pocket, then moved along to a group of friends. I may/may not have said thank you. The thing is – I don’t remember this at all. No dog, no pocket, nothing. Them? Crushed enough to remember it to this day. Me? Nada.

So knowing that, I’m sure I have inadvertently done similar to my kids.

Upside: What my kids end up talking about in twenty years might not be my Joan Crawford OCD moves or my honest assessments of their physical and emotional weaknesses, but something else entirely. That renders my introspection/this blog moot, but does nonetheless merit a shout out to their future therapists:

You’re welcome for the business.