Parenting 101

I was reading online news the other day (because I can no longer bear to unfold paper and search for my section unless I'm on the toilet) and I read an article about a 7-year-old who went on some kind of freakish rampage at an Australian zoo.

http://news.aol.com/article/boy-breaks-into-zoo-kills-animals/200065?icid=200100397x1210496518x1200657437

In a nutshell, the kid climbed into the zoo without tripping the security system (presumably because of his size; increasing job security for any B&E specialty midget) and chucked a bunch of lizards to the zoo's crocodile for a morning snack. (Hopping an outer security fence at one point to get closer to the predator.) I suppose the kid showed a bit of mercy in that he bashed a few with a rock to kill them before he tossed them to their dark, toothy end.

Now, I'm the mother of a boy who was 7-years-old not too awfully long ago. I can also say that my son often had issues with erratic behavior and a hair-trigger temper. And while I've shelled out my share of pocket money to replace broken windows or a neighbor's busted toy, NEVER could I imagine this kind of behavior. The zoo is considering legal suit against his parents. I say, "You're damned right!"

Because you know... you KNOW how this would have gone down if the kid had hopped that second security fence and gotten into the jaws of that crocodile. Those parents would be in court, claiming that the zoo's security had failed to keep their child safe from the blood-thirsty beast. Even now, I'm sure the lawyers will try to maintain that the zoo hadn't taken the proper measures to protect themselves.

From a 7-year-old?

Of course I ask where the hell are the parents. I can't imagine my children having the motive to run around killing animals, and furthermore, I can't imagine them having the opportunity.

Granted, my children are teenagers now. They have a little more freedom and a little more responsibility (because they weren't the kind of kids that broke into closed works and destroyed property) so I don't keep tabs on them as closely as I used to. (Though it can be argued that with everyone in cell contact, our cyberleashes keep us in closer contact than ever.) But when they were 7??? If they weren't with me or their father, my kids were with family members. Or in school. And typically supervised by an adult in the transportation or exchange between the two.

I'd LOVE to be an 'old-fashioned' parent. But I can't tell my children to 'go outside and play' when they complain of boredom. I don't trust 'outside' these days when I'm nonchalantly informed by my 11-year-old neighbor kid that he has been drinking and smoking weed since he was 9. (But it's okay, 'cuz now he doesn't smoke it, he just sells it. WTF?!?!?!)

I can't say that I've been overprotective of my children. They've gotten quite an education in my care. I kept them close, and attended many a rehearsal with a baby on my back or against my chest in one of those nifty papoose-deals. When most kids would have been watching 'Sesame Street', mine were in the green room singing along with 'Guys and Dolls', 'Little Shop', and 'Victor/Victoria' and learning a whole new vocabulary that didn't include basic Spanish. We brought a Thanksgiving turkey and an Easter ham to the dedicated crew busily stitching at the costume shop. We spent Fourth of July at 'Aunt TJ's'. We hosted Orphan's Thanksgivings and Orphan's Christmases for our extended theatre family.

I'm proud to say that my children know at least half a dozen Shakespeare shows and can usually correct their own English teachers on relationships and plot points. They are bright and intelligent and creative and sensitive human beings. They treasure relationships and they are not quick to judge. I'm thrilled that they don't discriminate against races, religions, sexual orientations, nationalities, or ages. They have an appreciation for art and creativity and beauty... and life.

For everything I've done wrong as a parent, there are some really important parts of child-rearing that have turned out right.

Many of my friends (and even family) have raised an eyebrow at some of my parenting philosophies. I sometimes think I'm just really stubborn with that whole 'I'm-gonna-fix-all-the-mistakes-my-parents-made-with-me' mentality, but that usually flies out the window when I'm staring at the ceiling at night wondering if I made the right decision or phrased something properly. I've always believed that if my kids are old enough to ask the question, they're old enough to get the answer. With my daughter, I've got a special arrangment, though. She understands that some answers have the potential to drastically alter her perspective or lift a 'protective veil'. In those cases, I'm to give her ample warning so she can determine whether or not the subject can wait. In some cases, she chooses to change the subject. In others, she pushes for more information. I like that system. I trust it.

I often feel bad for my father. Genetically, I got my mom's outside (plus two inches in height, go me!) but I sway towards my dad's personality and temperament. He's confident, intelligent, quick-witted, outgoing, uses comedy to diffuse conflict; sarcasm and laughter are his defense mechanisms when he's hurt. We were two peas in a pod, my dad and I. But my dad was one of four boys. And after me, he had three boys. Raising boys, living with boys, 'guy-language', that's what my dad knew. I fear he was a 'fish-out-of-water' where raising a girl was concerned. My mother had learned to internalize her emotions long before I came along, and though I managed to rile her up once in a while, our relationship didn't have the passionate discourse that I sought as my mind raced into adolescence with questions of spirituality, morality, integrity, and hedonism.

But with any dysfunction my family had... and readily admitting that there were many, many, many bugs that we murdered in cold blood... I still maintain that with the surplus of frogs that are irresistible to the hands of rough children that have no concept of fragility, we didn't mean to. I promise.

I cannot say the same for the Australian boy. I'm afraid he can only have a rough road ahead. And so do his parents.
Oy vey.