My son and I spend a lot of time alone together. He goes to school on weekdays, but in the evenings and on weekends we’re usually a two-person show. Even though DB is now almost four years old, I haven’t yet gotten the hang of the whole “play date” thing. (I object to calling a kid’s playtime with a friend a “date” - maybe that’s my problem.) As a result, I don’t have a good sense of how other same-age kids behave outside of the five minutes I see them at school drop-off. Furthermore, I don’t get to know other parents to find out how they view their own skills. My tendency is to believe other people are much better at parenting than I am. More consistent, more confident, more creative.
It was enlightening and encouraging, therefore, to attend a birthday party with DB at which the guest list was heavy on classmates. While the kids had a ball in the playroom, several of the parents and I camped out in the hall and swapped horror stories. This boy makes up exceedingly tall tales about how the lamp got broken. This girl wants to marry each and every boy in her class. That kid had a really hard time adjusting to the new baby. This one won’t stay in bed. Each of us confessed to something we thought was dreadful, only to have at least one other parent chime in with “oh, I’ve done that!!” We listened to each other and laughed, and, I suspect, thanked our lucky stars to have gained this valuable insight: none of us actually knows what we’re doing. We are all muddling through as best we can, reading books and consulting the school social worker and – bottom line – loving our children fiercely. Hoping not to cause lasting damage.
Surely there are some parents who do know what they are doing. I guess they were the ones supervising the kids in the playroom while we muddlers lurked and shirked in the hallway.