Matt asks:

One of the things that always troubles me about raising my daughter is that I will make the same mistakes that my parents made. In trying so hard not to do so, inevitably I will make different ones I never saw coming.

What are the mistakes your parents made that you won't make, and what mistakes will you probably end up making while you're not "paying attention?"

BusyDad:

I’m going to tell you off the bat that Mr Lady will have a far more compelling answer to this than I will. I had a relatively hardship/drama-free childhood. And I turned out pretty run-of-the-mill. This is not to say I think my folks couldn’t have done some things better though. One of those areas was nurturing the “cool factor.” There was absolutely none of that in my household. No sports, none of that “wild” rock ‘n roll music, and very little TV unless it was educational. I kicked ass on my report card, but thought the “AC/DC” that kids scribbled on their books was pronounced “akdik.” Don’t even mention gym class. I was a guaranteed liability (first guy pegged in dodge ball, only kid to strike out in kickball, etc.). When I grew up, I ended up over compensating. And that’s where I believe one of the biggest parental pitfalls lies. It’s not so much a lack of attention, but rather paying too much attention to certain things that were salient in your own life somewhere down the line.

I spent much of my adult life making up for lost experiences. I started doing martial arts at 18 and engaged in full contact fight sports for the next 18 years, when I should have been diversifying my portfolio. Bought a sick electric guitar, shaved my head, got tattoos, etc., etc., etc. If it simply ended with me, it would have been fine. But, as soon as he could throw, I bought my son a baseball glove and threw a regulation baseball at him, busting his nose in the process. And he can tell you the difference between pre- and post- Brian Johnson AC/DC. Should he be watching Backyardigans instead of UFC? Probably. But he’s not. Overcompensation.

Of course in my heart, I’m doing this out of a genuine desire to save my son from the feelings of social rejection that severely impacted my self-confidence growing up, but when I sit here and really look at it (like now), it’s obvious that I’m putting way too much weight on not making the mistakes that my parents made, and likely knocking something else out of whack in the process. If there’s any advice to be had here, it’s to be mindful of the difference between avoiding past mistakes and seeking redemption for them. Hell-bent just isn’t a word that should come up when characterizing your parenting style.

Mr Lady:

This is where I take a deep breath in, let it out, and try to not go all Oprah on your ass.  The first mistake my parents made was becoming parents.  So, yeah, I didn't outdo them there,  But.....

My parents did almost nothing right. They are the kind of people that make me believe in forced sterilization.  They beat us until we tore open, they humiliated us, they indoctrinated us in the scariest sort of a cult, they made us believe we were good-for-nothing wastes of air, they resented us and hated us and while one of them chose to live his life as if we'd never happened, the other one completely stopped living, entirely, the second the last kid was born. 

The biggest things my parents did that I fight every day to avoid are these:

• They refused to acknowledge that we were people.  Part of that was the cult, part their own upbringing, part their absolute inability to deal with the fact that they ever had kids.  They were the Seen and Not Heard generation, and they embraced that philosophy fully.  Every day, I try to find at least one way to validate my kids, to make them feel special and attractive and smart and valuable, not only in the world but in our family.  ESPECIALLY in our own family.
• They beat the ever-living dog shit out of us.  My father, to this day, still has his belt of choice.  And yes, it still has dried blood tucked in the crevices of the leather.  He thinks this is hysterical.  Every time I see that belt, I gag.  My children will never, ever associate an object with pain.  They will not remember my hand as an instrument of anything other that a pat on the back.  Oddly enough, I am very pro-spanking, but if you were ever subjected to one of my spankings, you'd see that I've learned.  The LAST thing they are is painful.
• They never once did anything in our best interest.  My mother has never worked one day in her life, even though she had four children and received only $525 a month in assistance.  We just had to survive on that.  We were very skiny children, who though free school breakfast was the greatest invention since the wheel.  I wore my brothers hand-me-down undies until I was 13.  (And wow, those bastards are C.O.Z.Y)  She joined up with the super-fab cult to satiate her own stupid need for something, paying no mind to the fact that her religion of choice had this thing against kids being kids.  My father just decided his new family was better, and away he went, 1400 miles away to be exact.  He married a woman who hated our guts and half of us never saw him again.  The other half of us tried and failed to have a relationship with him.  Not one stinking single step I take has any motivation OTHER than my kids.  Now, I haven't lost myself in that, and I get it that going out and getting hammered with LatteMommy or ZoeyJane or Huckdoll severely improves my mood and is therefore beneficial to my family in the long run, but I have been forced in the past two years to make some hard-core and questionable decisions, ones that almost broke me in two, and I did what was best for those people who trust me to make their lives the best they can be, and it's all worked out fine.
• They kept us completely removed from our immediate family.  I speak of four of us, but really?  TEN.  That I have touched?  EIGHT.  But only four that had any real contact growing up.  I longest amount of time I spent with my paternal grandmother following my parents divorce was the day I buried her.  My aunt?  Same thing.  I don't know how to spell either of my grandmothers first names, and have no clue what my grandfathers names are.  Cousins?  I have a vague memory of bunkbeds and a Playboy.  My mother was afraid of her family, and hated my father's, and my father was living it up in Colorado while we were starving in Delaware, so we didn't have him to help us see our family.  My kids, unfortunately, also don't have a ton of contact with their family, due solely to us living in Canada and grandma living in South Africa and Aunties and Uncles scattered to the four winds.  But let me tell you, my kids KNOW them all.  We talk on the phone, we email, we Skype (god bless Skype).  My kids also have a very unofficial, very devoted fake extended family.  God father, grandmother, grandfather, auntie, uncle and cousin.  Who would stand in traffic for them.  I made up for my parents shortcomings there amply.
  

There's more, loads more, but I've typed too much already.  I just do the opposite of them and pray for the best.

As for what I do unintentionally, well, there's a ton of that, too.  I pop.  A lot.  I try to be patient and sweet and attentive, but at some point I just overload and, well, you've never heard nothin' until you've heard me scream.  It breaks my heart to see them jump, and while I know that it's a better alternative to just beating them as I was trained to do, but I still need to improve.  I also don't worry so much about cleaning and organizing as I do about cooking with them and reading together and stuff.  Which is great, but a pig-sty is a pig-sty, no matter how many rainbows are hanging over it.  I haven't exactly taught them organizational skills, simply because I have to pay SUCH close attention to how I am treating them.  Every ounce of energy I have goes to not becoming my mother.  Maybe I need a therapist, eh?  Also, I spoil those suckers ROTTEN.  We had, oh, nothing growing up, and we didn't even get holidays or birthdays, and I overcompensate in the most disgusting sort of way with my kids.  Hell, my kid got a limo and a chartered ferry ride just for turning TEN.  I may be decked out in Target Couture, but those kids are all Gap'd and Naartjie'd and Ambercrombie'd to hell, dude.  Designer clothes, Polo bed sheets, Heeley's, every toy a kid could ever want, you name it.  I have to knock that shit off already.

Sorry, Matt, to totally over-answer your question.  It hit a nerve, brother.  I think it's a great question.  I hope we all ask ourselves that lots over the course of raising our kids.   

 

Hairless in Hagerstown writes:

Hi. I'm over 40 and I'm follicly challenged. Will using my children's shampoo cause my receding hairline to retreat faster? I only used it once, in an emergency situation, but I kind of liked it. It made me feel younger. Please advise.

BusyDad:
Suddenly, I feel a whole lot better. And all this time I thought I was on the fringe. A freak. I have been a closet Johnson's Head-to-Toe Baby Wash user ever since that day years back when I used my son's bathroom to shower and forgot to bring my stuff over. At first it was funny. "Hee hee, I smell like my baby,” I would chuckle to myself.

Then one day the faucet in the master bath broke. And we all had to use the other shower for a while. Sure, I had my Neutrogena shampoo and Dove body wash there, but the Johnson’s was sitting right next to it. Squirt-on-your-head-and-drip-all-the-way-down convenience. And the scent! I couldn’t resist. For a few weeks, my adult toiletries went untouched. In close quarters, people would often look up suddenly and ask “is there a baby in our midst?” to which I’d react by donning a perplexed expression and look around, too embarrassed to admit that it was indeed I who smelled so cuddly.

So I guess what I am saying is thank you. Thank you for making it ok for a grown man to enjoy bathing with gentle cleansing products that won’t dry baby’s skin. Oh, and the hair part? This was me after 3 days of consecutive use.

 

 

 

 

 

I’ll see you at Babies r Us.

Mr Lady:

The boring answer: Using a baby shampoo occasionally is great for really cleaning your scalp.  It's like using Aveda, but you don't have to hand over your firstborn for a bottle of it.  It's clarifying, yo.  It might actually help slow down the recession.  Maybe someone should talk to the US goverment about it.

The awesome answer: If you use a yummanummy one, like, oh, a watermelon flavoured scented one, and darling Mrs. Hairless in Hagerstown happens past the bathroom door while you're lathering up, well, she might just have to jump in with you.  Because it smells that good.  And if you should find your hands otherwise occupied, well, you won't have to worry about shampoo dripping into your eyes and burning them while the Mrs helps you "wash" your "hair."

 

MommyTime writes:

I know a lot of equal-division-of-labor couples who both work outside the home, and who share cooking/cleaning and other household responsibilities. But....when it comes to evenings and weekends, the kids are by default mom's unless she makes some special request or arrangement for dad to have responsibility. I won't ask "why?" since that's obviously relationship-specific, but I will ask: what's a mom to do about this assumption? It can be very frustrating to be the main point person ALL the time BY DEFAULT and to feel like you have to arrange for childcare on the weekends if you want to go shopping alone. By the same token, mom doesn't want to sound like a naggity nagkins and be all "can't you stop playing your video games" all weekend long. Ideas?

Mr Lady:
Dag, yo. I thought it was just me. What to do about it? I have NO CLUE. I have to say that, in my case, I set myself up for it. I naturally migrate towards the "child care" stuff rather than the "unclogging the drains" stuff, and so naturally, my kids come to me first for things first. In fact, they will crawl over their sleeping father, grab his sleeping hand and use his sleeping finger to jab me in the eye to wake me up in the morning. Unless they want money, they come to me. So, yes, I am the default, and I am kind of At Fault.

Here's what I did about it; We made a schedule. I get every single solitary Sunday night to myself. The assumption is that I am going out and there is only a discussion about it if I am NOT. I don't have to check with anyone, I don't have to cook dinner first, or pack lunches for the morning before I head out, nothing. I don't have to go to the grocery while I'm out. I don't have to call and check in half way through the night. Do you have any idea the wonders this has done for my mental health? SO MANY. Oh, and he gets Monday nights. Same drill.  It works out well for everyone.

BusyDad:
Well, if you do indeed beg for it, maybe that's why. What man doesn't love a good begging?

Oh sorry, I keep forgetting I’m supposed to at least try to give useful advice...

In my household, we also have unspoken default tasks. My wife does the laundry, the dishes and cleaning, while I do the cooking and the waking up/playing with the kid. These activities evolved over time, much like natural selection. I suck at folding, and dust bunnies and dog hair bother me not. But I’m a better cook and Lego builder. However, this is not to say I wouldn’t LOVE sleeping in until 11 every Saturday and Sunday (damn my Lego building skills!). Because I did once and it was good.

The thing with default tasks is that once they become established, it takes a very deliberate course change to shake them up. I’ll bet that your hubby would step up to help you out. After all, he does care about you and I’m assuming would love to make you happy. You just need to do a few things.

Ask
You have to straight up ask your hubby to take a bigger role in keeping the kids entertained. Don’t imply, don’t hint. Just say it: “I would love it if you could occupy the kids this weekend.” Notice I did not add “while I go to the mall” or “while I get coffee with Janet.” Because saying that would imply that you would do it if you didn’t have other plans. No, you want him to occupy the kids because you want him to occupy the kids. Period.

Schedule
Schedule a time. Make it bearable at first. You can’t just throw him into the fire because it’ll only breed resistance next time. Something like, “On Saturday, June 7, from 8am to 12:30pm.” Leave no room for error or interpretation. Interpretation is our prized loophole.

Help
He’s had no practice at this, which is why he defaults to video games. Not really his fault. But you know what the kids like to do. You also know what your hubby likes to do (or at least doesn’t mind doing as much). Put the two together and help him come up with activities. Does he golf? Suggest mini golf. Does he like to fish? Suggest the aquarium (or even fishing, if weather permits). Even just a lunch and a few hours at the park. The point is to preload some ideas into his head. This way the task of “what am I going to do with these little buggers” doesn’t seem so gargantuan.

Or offer/withhold “quality time” with him. That always works. We’re admittedly simple creatures.

Dean writes:

My question would be: Why do some people think that it is their job to tell you how to raise your child?

BusyDad:

Dean, two factors are at play here:

1. You don’t need any special certification or permit to have a child.

2. Children are amazingly resilient and can survive almost anything.

When you combine the two, any parent who has a child who breathes on their own suddenly becomes an expert on child-rearing (this site is living proof of that). Making it worse is the fact that there really are no right answers when it comes to how to raise a child. If there were, would we need entire sections of bookstores devoted to the subject? Everything in this arena is debatable. And since everyone’s an expert, you pretty much can’t escape the debate, which manifests itself as butting into every little thing you do with your kid.

Also, you are a man. Men are viewed as well-meaning, but bumbling caretakers, especially when it comes to little ones. Yes, it is insulting when someone judges our skills as parents based on our gender, but sometimes I think we forget that we brought this upon ourselves. By “we” I mean our gender, not you and I specifically. Ours is truly the first generation to have fathers who do anything besides hold family meetings, hand out allowance, say “run along now," and ruffle our kid’s hair. You just can’t undo that in one generation. It takes time and a lot of icky bodily fluids on our collective neckties to reverse.

My advice is don’t let it get under your skin. Women have had to deal with stereotypes too. It’s simply our turn on this one. And just as we get turned off by angry militant women, they probably get turned off by angry militant “hey, I’m just as much a parent” dads. Just roll with it. Things have a way of working themselves out.

 

Mr Lady:

Hmm. Tough one. I can't speak for guys, but women do this ALL the time. We compare diaper brands and flash cards and TV time and discipline tools and strollers. Wow, do we ever compare strollers. Why? Because women in general are competitive, snotty bitches who think that we are the only people on Earth who could possibly know how to keep a child alive, and it makes us feel better to point out your flaws because we are invested in our children, and have learned the ropes, and want to share our insights with you to make your job easier. Raising children is hard, and I believe that the Village Philosophy is an inherent trait in parents.  So, while I can't give you any solid advice on why they do it, I can give you some tips on how to identify and deal with at least the women...

There are three kinds of women advice givers. The first is the I've Tried it All and It ALL Has Failed Woman. The realist. The PRACTICAL advice giver. She'll be the one with three kids hanging off of her, who (looks like she) has been doing this crap for far too long, who will tell you that the Target diapers aren't quite as good as the Huggies but hot damn, the Safeway diaper cream sure does rock the Kasbah. She will smile and nod when you give your baby an ice cream cone, because god knows she's been there and realized a decade ago that a little cow's milk isn't going to kill that kid. She will also very gently remind you that honey on a binkie may, if fact, kill that kid, but she'll totally understand that you have been crammed to the rafters with information and doesn't fault you for not knowing that. She will, more often than not, have a shooter of Jameson in her diaper bag (or tucked in her bra if she's too frazzled to find her diaper bag already) for you to dip that binkie in once you've washed all the honey off. She will always have an opinion, and some bit of advice, but she's not militant about it, you know?  You can usually shut her up by offering to watch her kids while she takes the shower she is probably in desperate need of.  Or while she goes off to buy some patchouli.

The second kind is the, well, what is the word? The Stick Up Her Ass woman? The one that will walk up to your child in the grocery and ask her if she's lost, even though you are standing less than five feet from that child and watching her. Intently. The one who will roll her eyes at you when you buy the apples that aren't organic. The one who thinks it is Child Abuse to let your kid paint without a smock on, or eat ice cream, or watch anything other than Baby Einstein. The one with two kids dressed head to toe in Oilily who will say something tragically condescending to you as you wait in line for something, in a pathetic attempt to bestow some profound knowledge upon you, because you see, she has TWO kids and is therefore the World's Leading Authority on child rearing. She has no baby weight left. She goes to all the "right playgroups." Laughing in her general direction doesn't help matters, but it sorta makes you feel better.

The third type is the One Track Woman. There is something she believes in, and she believes in it so very strongly that there is no chance of ever having a rational conversation with her about anything else. It always comes back to that thing. "Why, isn't it a lovely day? Spring sure is great, isn't it?" "Yes, spring would surely be a lot more enjoyable for your child if he was wearing organic, cotton, undyed, whole wheat cloth diapers." "Did you see the news today? Obama might just get the nomination after all!" "And if only Hillary's mother had breastfed her for 8 years, maybe she would have instead."  Feined sincerity is the only avenue I have found that works here.  Agree.  Nod and agree.  Say something about Free Trade.  You should walk away unscathed.

OhCaptain writes:

We are getting ready for the family to go on their first 'airplane ride' vacation. When we travel with just my wife and I, she tends to over pack. Heck, for a weekend in Vegas we had 4 bags. I'm afraid of what packing for the kids is going to do to my back when it comes time to load the van. How do I let the wife feel like she's in control, but keep the luggage count to a minimum?

Second question. Do I tell the wife the truth about the price of the last bottle of scotch that I bought, or shift the price to a number she'll be more will to...um...be more happy with?

Mr Lady:

How do I let the wife feel like she's in control, but keep the luggage count to a minimum? You don't. When it comes to packing, especially for kids, only one of you can win. Pack it yourself or buy the big bottle of Doan's Back Pills at Costco. That's the best I've got for you, brother.

As for the scotch? Lie. Lie through your teeth. Lie like it's the last lie you're ever going to tell. 99.98% of women will never understand scotch, and will kill you upon finding the receipt. Lie so hard it hurts. Don't feel too bad about it, though; I promise you she lied about how much those last highlights cost.

BusyDad:

Like a good Scotch, you can’t rush this one. The solution to this requires patience, accurate record-keeping and time. I wish I could give you a quickie solution, but I like you and don’t want you to get your ass kicked. Never mess with a woman’s clothing intuition. If she tells you your tie sucks, even though she was there when you bought it, and has seen you wear it a gazillion times, your tie sucks. Stop wearing it. But I digress. Suffice it to say that this falls within that realm. I would invest in a nice back brace or weight belt for this trip. And a notepad.

Now here’s where you have to get a little stealthy. Try to jot down on the notepad everything she packs. Get an inventory. During the course of the trip, write down everything the kids wore. When you return home, compare the two lists and cross off all matching items. What you have left is the inventory of all the dead weight from this trip. Memorize it. Until the next time you guys have to pack. When that day comes, remind her that on your last trip, she packed A, B and C but the kids never needed them. She’s not going to agree with you. But you’ve at least planted some doubt, since you used real facts and not just speculation based upon “Dad laziness.” Your goal is just to get her to notice it. And think about it. Getting your wife to think about something is the best you can do for now. Trust me, the next time, she will pause when she folds the 3^rd pair of kid jeans for the next weekend trip. And the time after that, she might even put it back in the dresser. Like I said. Slow, like Scotch. One year at a time.

And now the actual Scotch. Does your wife ever get anything that’s a little on the extravagant side? Shoes or handbags come to mind. Tell her the truth (a quick internet search will reveal the truth anyway, so why lie?), but equate your Scotch to those extravagances. Put it in a proper context, in other words. The average top shelf Scotch costs around $85 a bottle. That’s about half the price of a nice pair of shoes and less than 1/10 the price of a nice Marc Jacobs bag. You don’t actually say that, of course. You simply say “Sipping this Bruichladdich 14 yr. gives me the same warm feeling you get from slinging that bag over your shoulder.” She knows how much that bag costs compared to your Scotch. You don’t have to say it. Context. All context. Waiiit a minute here. Buy yourself a bottle of Bruichladdich 1973 ($275). You deserve it. So do I, come to think of it. Cheers!