Back in the day when drive-ins were still a thing, our local was offering a double feature with Milo and Otis being the first movie off the rank.
Bundled the four little kids into the station wagon with blankets, pillows, snacks …everything to make them cosy and comfy.
The first movie was a hit then the second one. CHILD’S PLAY came on. How the hell was I meant to know that it wasn’t a kid’s flick, and within 30 minutes I had 3 traumatised sprogs crying and wanting me to TURN IT OFF (the littlest one had thankfully fallen asleep).
To this day 56 years later, I am reminded of my awful parenting moment. Mind you, none of them turned into psychopathic killers…yet.
I paid 3 years for the Lil’wrekker to have ballet lessons. Aged 3 - 6.
Never danced the first step correctly.
Oh but I thought she was the most wonderful toddler up there. She was unique. Undisputed. Maybe a prodigy.
The teacher/choreographer finally flunked her out. Tears (from me). I told the Lil’wrekker carefully, saying it wasn’t her fault. Not to feel down hearted. I never saw her dance so well, all around the house singing: “yay, no more dance class” over and over.
In perfect pitch.
So…we moved on to voice lessons… rinse and repeat.
Watching a community parade, when suddenly dozens of nude bicyclists rode into sight. Our five year old LOUDLY pointed out “Y’know, Mom, bringing me here counts as child abuse!”
We met a clown at some outside fair thing and he squirted water out of a lapel flower, his finger and a giant button on his jacket.
Kids thought it funny.
Then he would have you hold a flower pot with a fake flower in it. He’d bend down, smell the flower look up right close to your face and water would squirt out of his eyes as he frowned. Freaked my very young kids right out. You never heard such wailing.
I can’t remember how they slept that night. Must not have been easy.
When I was about 5 or so, a small circus came to town - the kind of second-rate outfit that pitches a tent in a field somewhere. My dad somehow acquired a couple of tickets to a performance and my mom took me.
During his act, the clown set off an explosive that made a loud bang and scared the crap out of me. I started crying.
After the performance was over the clown guy came over and tried to talk to me but I was having no part of that - wanted nothing to do with him at all.
I think I got over that quicker than my mom and he did, but yeah, I’ve never cared for clowns since!
As the pitiful(but nice) proponent of gentle yet clear instructions type parenting, I was always worried about the “oh, god they’ll be scarred for life” things.
So far the only thing that scarred anyone permanently was the bad idea of a hotdog on a bun in the lunch box. Son-of-a-wrek got called hot dog for a few weeks. Then dog boy a couple more.
This would’ve been 4th or 5th grade. He would not let me talk to his teacher. Probably wisely.
He’s never let me forget it.
My parents loved going to the movies, but sometimes their choices were rather questionable when it came to taking me along.
They thought I would love Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Unfortunately, to my 6 year-old eyes, all I saw was kids over-inflating and turning blue, and getting sucked into tubes and television sets. I was horrified. By the time Gene Wilder took his infamous psychotic boat ride down the psychedelic river, I was screaming in terror. We left shorty after that.
Their next choice wasn’t any better - a little film called The Legend of Boggy Creek. For those who haven’t had the pleasure, once scene shows Bigfoot literally yanking a man off of his toilet and through the bathroom window, never to be seen again. We lived in a house surrounded by thick woods and I had nightmares for weeks.
They switched to comedies after that, Blazing Saddles and Young Frankenstein, and I adored those.
My parents used to take us to museums regularly. The CHicago Historical Society used to show movies (it may still do so.) One day they were showing a nature movie, so my parents scored us front row seats for The Birds! I recall making it to the scene with the guy with his eyes pecked out…
Hmm. I guess there is a difference between being scared in-the-moment, and being scared OUT of the moment. As a preschooler I found the Winkies in Wizard of Oz pretty frightening, but they and the witch and her castle were all supposed to be scary. But to be terrified to the point that it pushes you completely out of the experience and you just want to completely bail is a completely different thing then.
The Son was ten. I picked him up after school to take him to a therapy appointment. He was moaning and groaning about his foot. He could always find something to complain about, usually when we were pressed for time.
After his appointment, the doctor all but carried him out to the car. I was disgusted with him, and walked ahead. When we got home, I headed to the kitchen to start dinner, while he went to the living room to watch TV.
When Mr VOW got home, he heard both sides to the foot problem. Mr VOW said he would take The Son to the Extended Care Clinic, and I said, “Go ahead.”
You can figure out the rest.
Father and Son came home hours later. The Son had a cast and crutches.
I could walk under a door that was closed and locked. Air molecules were taller than I was.
It has been almost thirty years since I failed so completely and spectacularly as a parent.
Preface:
Have you ever listened to the One Bad Mother podcast? They are normally very supportive, “you’re doing a great job,” kind of place, but they also do “fails.” The hosts and listeners will call in with stories exactly like yours, or any of the others in this thread. The hosts will often comment “you are the worst” or similar. Of course, if you’d called in as a “Mom having a breakdown” and reported the exact same story they would have been incredibly sympathetic, and offered condolences and understanding.
So in the spirit of how they handle fails on that show:
Wow, that is awful. How could you possibly be such as bad parent as to not know that this complaint was the one that was real?
My ongoing fail, and it will probably take a few years to know how bad it is. I just don’t have the energy for homework. 30-60 minutes of fighting with my kid every night to do homework they refuse to turn in anyway is just too much. So they’ve not completed a single assignment in any of their classes so far. They either don’t do the work, or do it partially and refuse to turn in even a mostly complete assignment. Maybe this week, start of a new term, we’ll try again.
My kid with a broken bone, story:
Mid-dau convinced her brother to jump on the trampoline with her. As I was always alarmed when they were within punching distance of each other, and personal space. I jumped up there with them.
Trying to do a hold each other’s hands and jump together, their hands touching would not do, so I landed on top of Mid-dau.
She got mad and went inside.
Ate dinner, did home work, showered. Went to bed.
She crawled on her knees to my bedroom the next morning.
To the ER. Broken ankle.
I actually broke her.
In my effort to keep violence to a minimum, I broke her.
I quit interfering with their sibling rivalry, after that
OH GODS, WHY DID YOU BRING UP THAT MEMORY! WHYYYYYYYYY! THAT SCENE STILL HAUNTS ME TO THIS DAY!
(and whatever else Bigfoot movie where they had horses, were attacked by Bigfoot at night, and only half of them rode out.)
The Daughter is 1.75 years older than The Son. As the Big Sister, she loved being able to take toys, food, even trash away from her brother. She clobbered him regularly.
I think she was about four or five, when I finally pulled her aside and told her that one day, her brother would start growing, and he would eventually be a LOT bigger than she would be.
As they neared puberty, there was a brief period of time they were approximately the same size. The fist fights were mutual combat. I would try to referee, but as soon as one argument was settled, they’d find something new to fight about. The remote control was a regular battleground. Once, I said “Hand me the remote!” It got quiet, and they each figured I’d side with one kid.
I set the remote on my desk and continued visiting with my friends on AOL. Oh, the crying! Oh, the screaming!
One night, I was tired. Tired of the arguing, tired of the fighting, tired of everything. After listening to the screaming and yelling, I said, “Okay! Enough! Go down the hall and fight it out completely. After one of you is dead, the other one can come tell me how many places to set for dinner.”
It got quiet, and I returned to my online chatting.
