4 BAD MOMMIES

Communicating With Your Teen – “But you said…”

May 8, 2011

By: Wendy S. Marcus

According to www.dictionary.com, communication is the imparting or interchange of thoughts, opinions, or information by speech, writing, or signs.

It sounds easy enough.

So why does this happen?

Me: “I have to go pick up your brother. The hot dogs (we buy in bulk) are thawing on the counter. Would you hack off ten and put the rest back in the freezer?”

My 13-year-old daughter: “Sure.”

An hour later I return home to the smell of hot dogs cooking. (About 5:00 p.m.)

Me: “You’re cooking the hot dogs?”

My daughter: “Yeah. You told me to make dinner.”

Me: “No. I asked you to hack off ten hot dogs and put the rest back in the freezer.”

My daughter: “No. You said……”

And here’s where I lose it. Because I know what I said and I did not ask her to make dinner. “Honey, why would I ask you to make dinner at five o’clock when we don’t usually eat until six?”

My daughter: “I wondered about that.” She looks at me. “Now you’re mad. All I did was what you asked me to do. And I did it without complaining.”

She’s right. She did. But now I have cooked hot dogs as 5:00 p.m. when my husband doesn’t get home until, the earliest, 5:45 p.m. “I’m not mad.” Not really.

“You said…..”

Okay. Now I’m mad. “I did not say….”

And she storms out of the kitchen.

Later that night…

Me: “Why are you on Facebook?”

My daughter: “You said I could have Facebook back.”

Me: “For one day and that was yesterday.” Because she’d gotten some good grades.

My daughter: “No. You said……”

And now I’m mad again. “No I did not say you could have Facebook back for more than one day. I know what I said.”

My daughter storms out of the family room.

The next morning…

My daughter: “Remember when you said….”

Me: “Honey I did not say we would overlook French in our deal for you to get straight A’s to earn a laptop. Straight A’s is straight A’s. It’s in all your classes.”

My daughter: “I can’t believe you don’t remember. You said….”

Me: “I did not.”

My daughter slams the door on her way to the bus.

And I feel terrible. I start to question myself. Am I unknowingly conveying subliminal messages? Is my aging brain no longer capable of retaining the smallest bits of information? Am I nuts?

Then no sooner do I write this post, this happens:

My husband: “Why were you playing Xbox when you have SATs tomorrow?”

My 17-year-old son: “Mom said I could.”

Me: “I did not.”

My son: “I told you I was going to play.”

Me: “I didn’t tell you you could.”

My son: “Well you didn’t tell me I couldn’t.”

Me: “I reminded you that you have SATs tomorrow.” And I’d used my stern, warning voice.

My son: “But you didn’t tell me I couldn’t play Xbox.”

So I ask you friends, fellow mothers, does this happen to you? Or did I miss the class on communicating with your teenager? Is there a handbook one of you is willing to share on how to talk so teenagers will understand? Maybe something that defines current phrases and abbreviations so I can incorporate them into my lingo? Or something that explains how teenagers process basic speech?

Any help would be greatly appreciated. Please click on the number below the title of this post to leave a comment.

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“You Might Feel Like a Bad Mommy If . . .” by Aimee Carson

May 3, 2011

It’s the first Tuesday in May and I’d like to introduce our first: “You Might Feel Like a Bad Mommy If . . .” moments.

- You might feel like a bad mommy if: you yell at your son for stealing the last Girl Scout cookie . . . and find out it was the dog.

- You might feel like a bad mommy if: you grit your teeth and tell your frustratingly picky child to quit complaining and just drink the chocolate milk already! And, just to prove she’s whining for nothing, you take a sip . . . only to discover the milk is spoiled.

Please share your bad mommy moments by clicking on the number beneath the title. And let us know if there are any other recurring topics you’d like us to consider!

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TAKING THE CREDIT…by Jennifer Probst

April 26, 2011

Being a mom is hard. Besides all the things such as keeping a child alive, safe, dressed, fed, and entertained, we are supposed to educate them along the way. I remember with my first born, I bought Baby Einstein DVD’s, played classical music, read to him and did puzzles for hours. The child did not say one word until he was two and a half and his brother entered the world and upset his perfect balance of harmony.

I had early intervention in to find the problem, and was told he would talk when he’s ready. He was quite content, laid back, and not in a rush. Until he had to fight his brother for attention, he had no need to speak. His personality is still the same. He learns at his own rate. But the summer before he went into kindergarten, I drilled him with name writing practice, letters, numbers, etc. He fought me every step of the way and refused to do the work. Then school started.

My son completely changed.

All of a sudden, he was writing his name for “fun.” He was sounding out letters. He was quoting his teacher and trying to stay in the lines when he colored. All of the things he refused to do under my watch. Things I didn’t think he could even do!

The other day, I picked an early learning book and sat down with him to read. He said, “Mommy, let me try.” And then he proceeded to read the whole thing. Now, I knew he learned site words but he sounded out each word in the book and succeeded. My mouth gaped in astonishment, and I said, “How did you learn to do that?” He proudly grinned, then shrugged. “School, mom.”

Yes. School. Not me.

He had a cold last week. My son with a cold is a frightful thing. Tissues everywhere with tiny dots on it. Refuses to blow. I’ve been trying to teach him forever. But last week he came home and announced he knew how to blow his nose. The nurse had taught him. The nurse was wonderful and smart and had taught him the right way. I gaped at the son I had painfully birthed for over 26 hours and said, like the adult I was, “But I’ve been trying to teach you forever! Why wouldn’t you listen to me?” He shrugged. “Don’t worry about it, Mommy. The main thing is, now I know how to do it.” Then walked away.

Damn school nurse.

The other day I was at the store with the boys and they were fooling around and looking at books on the shelves. The older one grabbed one and pointed to the exclamation point at the end of a title. “What’s that, Mom?” he asked me. I opened my mouth and then my little one spoke up. Who just turned four.

“An exclamation point is used at the end of a sentence to express great emotion or surprise.”

Verbatim, that is what he said. I stared at him in literal shock. The woman next to me turned around, clucked her tongue and shook her head in pride. “Well, isn’t that wonderful!”she said, using her exclamation point perfectly. “What a great mom you are!”

I smiled and nodded, feeling like a complete hypocrite. As soon as she was gone, I leaned down and whispered to my little one, “Where did you learn that?”

He rolled his eyes. “The Vtech learning computer, Mommy. The one Santa got me for Christmas.”

Yep. I bought the thing, but can’t really take the credit. I make him use it when I am desperate for some “me” time and we have exhausted all other avenues of entertainment.

I guess being a mom sometimes means not taking credit for all the little things our children learn in this lifetime. I am sure we have provided the foundation – and prepared our children for other teachers to come into their life and dazzle them. This could be a learning computer, a friend, a book, or even the television.

Have you ever had a situation where your child has achieved something outstanding yet you can’t claim the credit? Come share with us. Click on the number at the top of this post to comment!

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Clean is Mean by Regina Richards

April 19, 2011

“Mom, Stop! Pleeease. Don’t put away the laundry!”

I froze with a tower of towels in one arm, a stack of t-shirts in the other, my husband’s socks flung across my shoulder and his underwear pinned with an elbow against my ribs. I was stunned. Never before had anyone demanded I stop doing housework.

“But aren’t your friends coming over?” I was certain my teenager had told me he was having guys in later that evening to play video games. I’d even gone to the store and picked up snacks.

I’d also cleaned the kitchen, policed the bathrooms, vacuumed, swept, dusted, and polished the doorknobs. The house was company ready. Except the laundry. I’d folded that two days earlier and asked the kids to put it away. It was still on the dining room table.

“Yes, they’re coming tonight,” my son said as he opened the front door. He was meeting his study group at the library in a few minutes. “So please, don’t put away the laundry.”

“Why not?”

“Because it embarrasses me when the guys come over and our house is so…clean.” He made it sound like a bad word. “Nobody else’s house is cleeean.”

“But–”

“Please. Just don’t put away the laundry.”

“Maybe if I only put away a few–”

“Don’t. Put. Away. The laundry.”

“But–.” Too late. The door closed behind him and he was gone.

About now you’re probably wondering if I’m some sort of Stepford wife. Do the floors beneath my high heels sparkle? Do I wear pearls while doing the windows? No. Really, no. Drop by my house unannounced and you’ll find a place worthy of a layout in Messy Me Magazine. But I confess, give me any notice – a mere hint you might come by – and I’ll blow through the house faster than Mr. Clean ridin’ a Texas Tornado.

So did I put the laundry away? Of course not! I love my son. I would never embarrass him in front of his friends by being…clean. I left the laundry on the dining room table.

But not the underwear. Heavens no!

And not the pajamas or socks or anything old or worn or faded or just not pretty. After all, the dining room is the first thing people see when they enter the house.

So I left the laundry — carefully arranged on the table, a lovely clothing centerpiece.

Because I love my son.

(Bad Mommy!)

What about you? Do you ever over-achieve in a way that embarrasses your child? Click on the number at the top of this post to comment or share your bad mommy moments.

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My Daughter. Breasts. And Hugh Heffner.

April 12, 2011

By: Wendy S. Marcus

Recently, while scanning through all the pictures my daughter uploaded to Facebook, which I do on a regular basis, I noticed a shot where she was leaning over in a position that left way too much of her cleavage on display.

“Remove that picture this instant,” I said.

“But look how good my hair looks,” she replied.

“Trust me, honey,” I said. “No one is looking at your hair.”

She deleted the picture. But later on she said to me, “You should write a book about a girl who exposed her breasts on Facebook and Hugh Heffner saw them and offered her a spread in Playboy.”

“WHAT?” I yelled, clutching my heart. “You are a 13-year-old girl. What do you know about Playboy and Hugh Heffner?” And why exactly was she thinking about a pictorial spread?

“Calm down, Mom.” She rolled her eyes in that you-are-totally-uncool kind of way. Then she turned my chair and climbed onto my lap.

Even though she’s almost bigger than I am, since I don’t want to miss the rare opportunity to cuddle and chat, I let her. “This requires a lap chat?” I asked.

She laughed.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“I thought you said lap dance.”

I dumped her onto the floor. “LAP DANCE?” I yelled. “What do you know about lap dances? What are you watching on television? That’s it. No more TV. No more Internet. Give me your cellphone.”

Okay. I was half kidding. But it made me think. Exactly where did my 13-year-old daughter pick up these things? We certainly don’t discuss them in our house…at least not prior to that day. And am I being naïve to think she is too young to be talking so casually about Playboy and lap dances? Yikes! Now I pay a lot closer attention to what she watches on television. I have banned a show called The Jersey Shore. She loves a show called Degrassi which I think is supposed to be based on high school kids. If so, I think I’m going to consider home schooling next year.

Do your children ever say outrageous things that make you wonder: How the heck do they know that? And if you have teenagers, what’s your take on how advanced our kids seem to be at such young ages? What do you do to police their Facebook and television time?

Please comment by clicking on the number up in the top right corner of this post. Thank you!

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Guilty Pleasures

April 5, 2011

By Aimee Carson

Yesterday I ran across a 2009 New York Times article with the title Working Mothers Find Some Peace on the Road.

The gist of the story was this: despite the hassles of travel, airports, long work days, and the horrors of trying to balance work and family life, it can still be rewarding. Often it’s the only chance these women have to relax. A free moment to be a human being and not the employee/boss, the wife, or the mother. To answer to yourself and no one else.

One point that was routinely mentioned was the internal conflict that came from leaving the kids behind. As one mother was quoted:

“I can go home and deal with two screaming 6-year-old twins and a grumpy preteen,” she said. “Or I can go to the Four Seasons in Mexico City and drink Cognac in the bathtub.”

Sadly, when I’m away at work my free time is spent in an Alaskan bush town in an apartment that was built in the ‘70s, so it’s not quite up to the standard of the Four Seasons. Oh, and there’s no bathtub either, only a shower that leaks. The internet sometimes works, and there is cable—something I don’t have at home. But I’m not kickin’ back on a plush, king sized bed covered with 1000 count Egyptian cotton sheets.

Of course I wrote this post for the bad mommies blog so there must be something about my time away from home that makes me feel guilty—aside from being away from my family, that is.

So what are my guilty pleasures? Adult conversation without interruption. Making my dinner choices based on what I want and not on the limitations of a picky eater’s needs. And if I’m really lucky, after a busy day at work I’ll spend a quiet evening reading. Occasionally I turn on the TV and veg, surfing through the cable selections and remembering why I don’t pay for it at home. All this is very helpful when trying to decompress after a stressful day at work, a luxury I didn’t used to have.

Back when I was working full time and we lived in Alaska our house was a two minute drive from the hospital. Which sounds great until you spend twelve hours managing a critically ill patient because there’s a blizzard and you can’t medevac them to the ICU located five hundred miles away. After this particular experience I finally left work, mentally and physically exhausted, and two minutes later my kids were running around the house screaming excitedly that mommy was home. Talk about your sensory overload. From then on I drove the snowmachine to and from work. At least then I had fifteen minutes to mentally shift gears!

Fortunately my life isn’t quite the extreme it used to be, but there are moments when I take my time in the grocery store just because it’s nice not being pulled in several directions at once.

Do you ever s-t-r-e-t-c-h your time away from home on purpose? Do you take the scenic route back from the library or spend time flipping through the magazines at the newsstand when you’re supposed to be shopping for groceries? Share your experience and comments by clicking on the number near the title at the top of this post.

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Embarrassment is Power by Clover Autrey

March 29, 2011

This week the Four Bad Mommies welcome Guest Mommy, Clover Autrey. Clover is the mother of six children and yet somehow still finds time to blog and write Fantasy Romance and YA novels. Like most of us, Clover finds being a mommy isn’t always easy…

I’m reserved. I really am. I do not want to put myself out in public as the screaming lunatic mom. I want to be the cool mom. But when my eight-year-old decided he’d rather take punishment than obey the simple rule of letting me know where he is, I knew what had to be done.

My kid is one of those guys that takes most things in stride, except being embarrassed. I learned that when in First Grade he decided that it was my job—not his responsibility—to get him up for school, practically dress him while he laid there too tired from his busy social schedule the previous day to button his own shirt—pleee…aaase—and haul him to school. He was usually late.

Until one day I let him sleep in, and in.

“Mom?” he groused, rubbing his eyes. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“Not my responsibility. I’ll take you to school when you’re ready.”

Fortunately he was young enough not to realize it could have become a Yay! No school day! if he’d just gone back to bed. But after I totally embarrassed him at the school office, stating as loudly as I could that he was late because he couldn’t get himself up, his little cheeks flaming, you can bet the next day he was up bright and early, dressing himself.

So when he decided he was too busy playing to let me know where he was—big rule in our family– I knew exactly what to do.

See, here’s the thing, my son has four friends on our street and they go from house to house. I don’t have a problem with that. I like my kids to feel independent. But I also like to know where they are. House-hopping to the four friends’ homes is okay, but if he’s going to a friend of friend’s house I kinda need to know beforehand so I don’t 1) panic and 2) end up calling the entire neighborhood and looking like the bad mommy who can’t keep tabs on my own kid. Did I mention that I don’t do well with embarrassment either?

This was continuous behavior and groundings yielded no effect. The pathetic excuse offered was always, “But Mom, I just forgot”. One day, I’d had enough so I sent him off to play, watching him unsuspectingly run happily off with his little gang while I rubbed my hands together maniacally, “Oh you’ll remember after this. Mahahahahaha.”

Yep, I watched from the window, waiting, plotting, (Bad Mommy!) until I saw the slip up. He and his little cohorts went to an unspecified home. I ran out of my house, ripped down the sidewalk and into the backyard to begin my tirade.

Whoa. There had to be at least ten kids back there, all staring at me. I hesitated. This was so going to sink the cool mom reputation I aspired to.

But I had to do it. My son was not the boss of me. So I yelled. I ranted. I went completely over the top about how he didn’t call me, didn’t let me know where he was, how he could have been killed or kidnapped. Yeah, I know, he was only five doors down but I spazed out. Overkill. My son’s face was red. All the kid’s mouths dropped to the grass. I could hear their brains buzzing, “Geez, dude, your mom’s crazy.”

It was awful. It really was. I was awful for embarrassing him so badly. I was embarrassed myself. But ya know what? It never happened again. The next two weeks he called every five minutes any time the gang changed houses. All that checking in was pretty annoying, but yeah, I probably deserved it. I imagine his traumatized friends were constantly reminding him to call his psycho mom. So much for being cool.

Have you ever purposely embarrassed your kids? Share your experience and comments by clicking on the number near the title at the top of this post.

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Teen Dating and the Bad Mommy – Regina Richards

March 22, 2011

“Do we wait out on the steps? Or do we go wait for her in the car?”

“Neither,” my husband said firmly. He held the door open and shooed me through it. “She said she’d see us at home.”

“No,” I said, stepping out into the warm spring evening. “She said she’d be out in a minute to go home.”

“Because his dad is picking them up.”

“No. His dad is picking him up. She’s riding home with us.”

My husband gave me that you’re-being-crazy-over-protective look, but I ignored him, smug in the knowledge I’d brought three kids to the brink of adulthood without serious disaster. Besides, I barely knew this boy. After having a heart to heart with my daughter about the perils and pitfalls of dating and about sensible rules for first and fifty-first dates, I’d agreed to this movie meet up – if her father and I came along. My husband, being the “cool” parent, insisted we see a separate show at the same theater multiplex. I chose a film that started a few minutes later than theirs (so I could watch them go in) and ended a few minutes earlier than theirs (so I could watch them come out again).

And I’d only insisted my husband sneak into their show twice (Bad Mommy!) to spy on the dating duo.

I turned to peer back through the glass theater front, but my husband was blocking my view. “She came with us, so it’s only logical she’ll ride home with us,” I said, sidestepping him to get a better look.

“I’m pretty sure she said…” my husband began, but I was lunging to catch the door before it closed behind us.

My hands clawed for the handle. Nothing. Smooth glass. These were the doors that regurgitated patrons after the theater digested the contents of their wallets in exchange for a couple of hours of on-screen entertainment and a diet-torpedoing round of popcorn and sodas. There were no handles on this side. Exit only.

Frustrated, I pressed my nose to the cool glass door. Fifteen feet on the other side my sixteen year old daughter, slim and blonde, striking in the new jeans and figure-hugging sweater we’d picked up at the mall that afternoon smiled at the shaggy-haired boy in the sweet-gangsta dress.

I tapped politely on the glass. They didn’t notice. Golden sunlight filtered across the marble floor glowing over them as they stood alone in the theater atrium. Where were the other patrons? Where were the employees? The boy’s head was inclined attentively toward my child as she spoke and a too-attractive smile curved his perfect mouth. I tapped harder. After all, I needed to know what her plans were. We lived in the same neighborhood as her date. If we were waiting in the car thinking she’d be riding with us and then she rode home with him, we’d end up trailing them home like a pair of stalkers. Even I have limits.

Gangsta boy took a step closer and suddenly my mother’s heart didn’t care if he was really a suburban teen from a nice family just playing with gangsta style or that he was an A student with applications in to MIT and Stanford. He reached out a hand and curled one finger around my daughter’s pinkie!

“I’m going back in to, er, find out what the arrangements are.” I started toward the other side of the building where the entrance doors – the ones with handles on the outside – were. My husband caught my arm and pulled me back.

“Don’t be silly,” he said. “His dad is giving them a ri-.” He caught sight of the view beyond the glass. Gangsta boy tilted his head to one side. My daughter closed her eyes. I thought the glass would break as my husband started pounding. The two teens jumped apart.

I grabbed for my husband’s arm. “Calm down.”

His bushy Celtic brows scrunched together in a single beserker line. He pounded harder.

My daughter came out the door laughing. She laughed all the way through the parking lot to the car. She was texting furiously as we started home.

“I’m sorry about that,” I lied. I wasn’t sorry at all. I nudged my husband.

“Yeah, sorry,” he said, though he obviously wasn’t sorry either.

“It’s okay,” my daughter laughed.

“What are you texting?” I asked.

“Just that he doesn’t need to worry your total weirdness is hereditary,” thumbs flying, “because I’m adopted.”

She’s not.

I’m guessing about now you’re thinking: Sheesh, what an over-protective prude! But I’m not. No, really, I’m not. Okay maybe I am – a little. But I never thought I would be. When my kids were little I was sure that when they were teens I would be the cool mom – full of trust and self-restraint, confident in the fact that I had raised my daughter to be a responsible, independent young woman capable of making good decisions about her present and her future. Which I did. And I do trust her. It’s all those teenage boys out there, the ones with the perfect mouths and the Johnny Depp hair, who keep me awake at night.

Am I the only one? Any other parents out there ever get weird about your teen dating and descend into Bad Mommy territory? Share your experience and comments by clicking on the number at the top of this post directly below the title.

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Why Is It Always MY Child? by Jennifer Probst

March 15, 2011

If you’ve followed my blog, you know about my wine trip with 9 children at my brother’s house (Children and Parents and Wine, Oh, My!) . Well, a few weeks ago we had the pleasure of having 7 children together for the weekend with the big plan of finding: SOMETHING FUN TO DO. In the winter. Saturday morning. Because if you know anything about my beloved brother, plans are always made last minute.

Luckily, my husband’s OCD came in handy, and he remembered a Winter Carnival at West Point. Tons of family activities for a cheap price. Score.

We bundled the kids up, packed up their snowpants, and headed out for some old fashioned fun. The place was great – complete with an outside barbeque and a beer tent with bottles chilling in the snow. Skiing, snow tubing, snowmen building and snow painting were on the agenda. A band played a little music, the sun shone brightly, and once again, we grabbed hold of the moment.

So, I ask you, what could possibly go wrong with such a perfect day?

The ongoing challenge of a just-turned, four year old monster.

My pride and joy is going through a “phase.” Back talk, tantrums, demands and neediness. Some days I feel as if I have conquered the stage. Other days I just feel like I suck.

We filled our plates with tangy barbeque chicken, crunchy cole slaw, and washed it down with icy beer. The kids danced and played in the snow; the adults talked and laughed. All seemed fine until the whining began. My little one: “I waaaaaaant hot chocolate, mommy.” “I dooooooon’t like this chicken, mommy.” “I neeeeed to go potty, mommy.” Happy enough, I saw to his needs, did not cater to his whining, and partied on. The kids wanted to roll in the snow, so I put on my older son’s snow pants, told my husband to put snow pants on the little one, and went inside to get some cheese fries and hit the bathroom.

I was on line when I heard a very annoying crying cut through the chatter of the crowd and stop right behind me. I turned.

My little one had been stuffed into his snow pants and was clearly not happy. He twisted and turned, pulled and cried, “Get it off!” My husband looked at me helplessly and thrust him at me. “Here, I don’t know what to do.” I calmly explained if he wanted to play in the snow, he needed snow pants. My husband began getting impatient with the crying, and laid down the law. “Cut it out!”

Silence. My child stared at me and blinked. One, two, three…

“AGHHHHHHHHHHH!”

The scream ripped from my son’s throat. He threw himself on the floor and started thrashing around, weeping openly as if his heart was broken, sobs rising through the air around us. Right in the middle of a busy line of people. I got off the line, kissing my fries goodbye, dragged him to a corner on the rug, and let him rip.

It went on a while. Kids and parents pointed and whispered. Heads shook. My child had become the poster image of BAD PARENTING. And I was right in the middle of it, with nothing to do but try to shush him to be as quiet as possible and not get in anyone’s way.

And then the question sounded once again through my brain like a mantra:

WHY IS IT ALWAYS MY KID?????

When the snow pants were removed, and crying had eased, we settled him down with a piece of chicken and he sat quietly, completely exhausted from the experience. So were we. But I would not let this child beat me. I got another free beer, headed over to the snow painting, and watched while the other 6 children had a blast. We had two other mini incidents and my little one ended up falling asleep on my shoulder, passed between my husband and I, while we continued talking and laughing.

I am learning that with children, you can never have expectations. A “fun” time can end up in disaster depending on a whim or a mood. Motherhood has taught me not to cling to what should have been, and just accept the moment.

The tantrum phrase is frustrating, trying, and emotional. Unfortunately, it’s part of the journey, and I am doing the best I can.

I also believe one day, when my son is grown and towers over me, I will smile secretly and know he was always a “mama’s boy.”

And love every single moment of it.

Drop by and share your “tantrum” moments with me because I am also a firm believer in “we will laugh at this one day.”

Ah, one day…

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The Discipline Dilemma

March 8, 2011

By: Wendy S. Marcus

When my daughter pushes my husband past his limit he’s quick to lash out, “No television or computer for a week!” BAM! A direct hit annihilating two of our 13-year-old daughter’s favorite pastimes.

Pretty darn effective, right? Take away what she wants the most to teach her a lesson. Make her just as mad as she made him. She yells and storms out of the room. My husband settles back on the couch and resumes watching – insert sporting event here – on television, proud of his role as disciplinarian.

The next morning he leaves for work and who do you suppose is left to deal with our darling when she returns home from school? Heaven forbid there’s a day off. My wily daughter will plant herself in my office – because she has nothing better to do. She’ll suddenly want to talk about every minute detail of her life while I’m trying to work. She’ll play with things on my desk. Blast her iPod too loud, because she knows it upsets me. She’ll do whatever it takes in an attempt to push me to say, “Go watch TV and take my laptop with you. But don’t tell daddy.”

Sure I could let her sneak television and Facebook while my husband isn’t home. He’ll never know. She’ll be happy. I’ll be happy. It’s a win, win!

Not really. Because what did she learn from the punishment, excessive though it may be? It doesn’t matter if daddy punishes her because mommy will give in? If she whines loud enough and bothers me long enough she’ll get her way? Not messages I want to be sending!

I used to get so upset with my husband. “Don’t impose punishments you’re not around to enforce!” That didn’t work, because when he gets angry, he’s not thinking of enforcing the punishment, just doling it out. And he has to work, I certainly can’t fault him for that!

We all know: For discipline to be effective you need to be consistent. (Which my husband certainly is!) But more importantly, you need to follow through. You cannot back down in the face of whining and nagging.

Here’s where creative parenting comes in. I’m a firm believer in rewarding good behavior as much as punishing bad behavior. I often, and my husband is aware of this, give my children the opportunity to earn back something they’ve lost. Not completely, which would negate the punishment, but in increments. For example: My daughter can earn one hour of Facebook if she does XYZ. (Something above and beyond the chores she is routinely expected to do.) Or she can do the same to earn back one hour of television time. I need to remain diligent, though, because one hour can easily turn into three if I don’t go upstairs and check on her.

My son lost Xbox during the week because his grades did not reflect his full potential, but I allow him to earn back one hour of Xbox for every A he brings home. (Two yesterday. One in physics and one in pre-calc.)

Does it make me a bad mommy to give in…not totally…but a little, to compromise on punishments? What do you think? And what type of discipliner are you? Do you always follow through or do you make empty threats? Do you ever compromise on punishments? There are no right or wrong answers. Just what works in your household and what doesn’t.

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