Failing at Parenthood, Part One

On a recent trip to a shopping mall, I rounded a corner to see a toddler standing at the bottom of the escalator, happily applying his tongue to the black rubber handrail as it rolled by, round and round. I think he liked the salt.

Even before Covid, this would have been a little alarming.  My first thought was, “Where is the parent?”  I burst out laughing a moment later when his horrified mother arrived, grabbed her son, and quickly looked around to see if anyone was watching--and judging. I gave her a big thumbs up.

Our fear of being thought of as a bad parent is nearly as powerful as our fear that perhaps we are. It’s time to come clean.  All of us have lost our children.

My son, Charlie, was such a free spirit that I dressed him in orange for the first five years of his life so that he wouldn’t be shot in the woods—but also so that I could locate him when he went AWOL. 

Even so, I lost my precocious boy on The National Mall--on The 4^th of July!  As I raced around in a panic, I spotted an orange dot being removed, by security guards, from one of the cannons in front of the National Capitol.  After reclaiming my child and apologizing to the guards who were, absolutely, judging me, I sheepishly returned to our blanket to watch the fireworks. I literally tied my child to my belt to prevent losing him again.

As we flail and fail at parenting, we feel a little better when we hear about other parents whose flaws are even worse. As I shouldered my guilt about losing my son, I read about the parents in North Dakota who placed their baby carrier on the roof of their car as they got their other children into their carseats. They drove away, forgetting the little guy on the roof, who simply rolled off into a snow bank, but was rescued by a car behind them. (True story, and baby was fine).

Now that everyone has a cellphone, my daughter writes her phone number on her children’s arms with a sharpie when they head into a crowd. Her youngest is a little Houdini who can find a way to escape any adult. It’s a good thing he’s cute.

(PLEASE SHARE YOUR OWN BAD PARENTING STORIES IN COMMENTS)

When I was growing up, our house was one of many that was built with a clothing chute, so that dirty clothing could be tossed from a higher floor and land in the basement to be laundered.  It was a wonderful invention—for anyone who did not have children. 

My friend’s family, who had a pile of kids, also had a clothing chute.  Like all children, her siblings would drop stuffed animals, dolls, and golden rule books down the chute. Soon after their parents arrived home with a new baby, the siblings had a bright idea. They decided to give their new baby sister a ride down the clothing chute.

Fortunately, the infant lodged halfway down and did not land in the basement, two floors below.  Unfortunately, she lodged between floors. It took the fire department an hour to free her.

When I find myself despairing over my own parenting mistakes, I think of those who have temporarily lost their children in snowbanks and clothing chutes, and feel a little lighter.