One of the nice things about being an older mom is that I never felt it necessary to care whether or not my kids liked me.
I have plenty of adult friends (though, sadly, none with money.) I don’t need my kids to be my buddies. They’re my progeny. My living legacy. My blessing. My curse. They don’t also have to be my BFFs.
This attitude has paid off in spades at least 10,244 times, when I’ve been able to say “No” to many things that approval-seeking younger moms could not. Sometimes, just because I was too tired and crabby to care.
When you adopt two miniature humans at age 46 – the same age many of my peers were sending their kids to college – you find out just how tired you can become and still stand up and form the words, “Stop that. Stop it now.”
I’ve said “No” to a wide variety of proposed ventures and schemes over the past 15 years, sometimes with gusto, and sometimes with regret.
But if you read child-rearing handbooks, (which I do not recommend as they only make you feel like more of a failure), they will warn you authoritatively against saying “No” to your kids, because this damages their tender psyches.
Instead, you should say “Yes,” but with a caveat.
“Yes, you can have that ice cream, after we eat dinner.”
This is good, and better than what I would tend to say, which is, “Get the hell out of the freezer, you’ve been staring into it for 20 minutes, all the ice is melting, and we’re about to eat.” Apparently, this is not a recommended way to communicate with the little darlings.
But I enjoy saying “No,” in fact, it’s become rather a hobby of mine. Not as engrossing as, say, picking dog hair off my clothes, which is a full-time occupation, but still enjoyable.
There have been many proposals over the years that I’ve said “no” to so fast it came out like a hiss, including pit bulls, reptiles, ant farms and guns.
I was reluctantly talked into getting, first one dog, and then a second, even though I don’t actually even like dogs. I’m a cat person all the way.
Before I agreed to get that first dog, I kept buying my daughter animatronic pet toys under the mistaken impression that a robotic dog would make her forget her longing for the real thing. This works about as well as eating a rice cake and telling yourself it’s German chocolate.
But, after the first dog arrived, the word “No” could not come out of my mouth fast enough when both of my kids proposed that our second dog be a pit bull. Sorry if you are a pit bull lover, but, no.
We went to the pound and got a fluffy white Maltipoo-looking creature, but, as a consolation prize to my son, named him Lil Wayne, after a notorious rapper.
Over the years, I also shrieked “Nein!” whenever the subject of any kind of reptile came up, whether an iguana, a snake or tortoise.
Ant farms only make me imagine what would happen when they inevitably get broken, sharing a fate along with every single wine glass I’ve ever owned, my favorite coffee mug and all my nice dinner plates.
In general, I refuse to have any pet that’s incapable of loving me back. I’m just not interested in having a staring contest with an iguana, nor desperately trying to keep a stupid fish alive.
This extends to furry creatures as well, including white rats and guinea pigs. I had house rats, they lived in my attic and it cost a lot of money and aggravation to have them exterminated. I’m not paying money to bring another one home.
When I was a kid, my brother had a guinea pig, but all it ever did was eat, poop, wiggle its nose and look at you. That’s why I was talked into trying a dish called “cuy” (coo-ee) when I was in Peru, a great delicacy there that consists of … roasted guinea pig.
Some of you are flinching right now and getting ready to write me hate mail, but here’s the thing: It was delicious.
I didn’t go to Peru with the idea I’d eat a guinea pig, but, when you’re there, every Peruvian you meet asks you, “Have you tried cuy yet?” Eventually you feel you’re insulting their national honor by not giving it a shot.
So I did my part for international relations, and I wish everything was that tasty.
My kids are legal adults now, but they still live at home, and I’m still saying no to them.
Sorry, dude. No motorcycle. No parties with drinking. Well, yes. When you’re 21.
Hope you’re still my friend.
