The Secret to Parenthood

“The Secret” has changed my life,” my girlfriend Renata told me on a recent girls’ night out. I knew she was talking about the new documentary about the power of positive thinking that Oprah has hailed as a must-see. “You are supposed to watch it seven days in a row. I’m on day three.”

I burst out laughing. “You’re kidding, right?” I kept laughing until, of course, I realized she was completely serious.

“My children are watching it too. It’s teaching them to have more love in their hearts, be more grateful.” Samantha and I looked at each other with interest.

“A movie is doing all that?” I asked. If that was true, it was time to turn off “Hannah Montana” and put on “The Secret.”

“Turn that thing off,” my husband grumbled after five minutes of our late night viewing. “I can’t take anymore of this mumbo jumbo.” I think that was during the scene when the woman was visualizing a new diamond necklace.

“You should be more open-minded. This can make our children be more grateful, more loving.”

“Our children are fine. I, however, need more sleep.” I turned down the volume and finished my viewing over his snoring. I called Samantha the next day to discuss how we were going to revolutionize our parenting with The Secret

“So here’s the deal—we can create our own reality with our thoughts. All we have to do is ask, believe, and receive.

“Will this potty train Nico because the M&Ms reward scheme is not cutting it?”

We made lunch plans to meet and make our Secret plans. I recently lost a babysitter to a full-time job. Since she told me her babysitting days were over, I’ve been moping around like I was dumped on prom night.

After ordering lunch at a new Mexican restaurant in town, I laid out what we had to work with: There was no section in the movie devoted to the secret to parenting, only to the secret to money, relationships, health, world, life and you. Since getting a three and a half year old to go poop in the potty could fall into any one of those categories, we felt confident that we were on the path to success.

Samantha began by visualizing her son not holding out for the diaper and actually sitting on the toilet and dropping a load. She believes that she has to wipe his butt and then receives the fact that her grocery store bills would drop at least 20% with the lack of diaper purchases. There was no begging, bribes or feelings of being an inadequate parent. Poop was in the potty and that was all that counted.

After inhaling my two thousand calorie chile relleno, I visualized a girlfriend who is an Emergency Room Pediatrician with degrees in Nutrition and Education calling me about a babysitter she can no longer use. I meet her and believe that she is an incarnation of Mary Poppins, replete with art projects, phonic reading books and organic snacks. We discuss salary, but money doesn’t really matter to her—it is the happiness of my children that counts. I receive her and we become a happy family traveling the world together singing songs just like the Von Traps without World War II.

Samantha and I felt good about our asking, believing and hopefully receiving, but I remained skeptical. When it comes to parenting, I think it takes more than positive thought to get the job done. We all want the best for our children, but when they go pee-pee in the bed at 4 a.m. someone has to change the sheets.

A friend of mine who sits for me on rare occasions just told me she has time available to watch my girls. “Yes,” I screamed, “I am receiving!” It’s not clear how much time she has for me, but I’ll take what I can get.

As for Samantha, she’s still waiting for her Secret moment. But that’s parenthood. If it isn’t the potty, it’s homework or the trip to the emergency room. As far as I can tell, the only true secret to parenthood is a devotion to the long haul of love that it takes to raise a child.

Hold the Frosting

It seems like only yesterday I was laying flat on my back kissing the Blarney stone in Cork, Ireland wishing for some good Irish luck and a handsome husband. Twenty years later, I have the husband, two kids and a closet full of itchy wool sweaters. These day I don’t have time for exotic travel. I am busy raising my kids, working, and attending three to four birthday parties on the weekends. Yes, I live on the birthday party circuit.

My introduction to this particular form of adult madness began about a year ago when I attended a magnificent orphan Annie birthday party at a swanky hotel. I was greeted with a choice of pink or white champagne, my kids jewels or glitter to decorate their crowns. A buffet table decorated with fine tea sandwiches allowed us to nibble as we pleased. ‘Now this is something I could get used to,’ I mused as the waiter topped off my glass. When one of the kids broke the two-foot chocolate Statue of Liberty adorning the cake, no one seemed to stress as New York City quickly turned to cocoa bits.

After attending fashion show, petting zoo and rock star parties, I began to plan my own birthday party extravaganza. Our budget couldn’t handle a fancy hotel for our youngest daughter’s birthday, so we settled on a mermaid party at a local hair salon that also had a photography studio. After eating some finger sandwiches, the girls got their hair done, nails painted and make-up applied. They slipped on mermaid costumes and had their photos taken in various poses. My mother, who had flown out for the party, kept looking at me. I think she was wondering if I had been smoking crack to plan such a party for my daughter who was only turning four.

She didn’t realize if I had to give up my weekends, I was going to do it in style. That was until my daughters attended a princess birthday party at the same hair salon/photography studio location. Upon arrival, they didn’t want to eat, just get their hair and make-up done. I ignored the low blood sugar possibility since they seemed perfectly content. That is until they had to change into their costumes.

“I can’t dress as a princess,” my oldest daughter cried, “Princesses are not cool and not fun. I want to be a rock star.” I stared at my spoiled Eloise and wondered what the right parenting move was. If I took her home right away, it would cause a scene and punish my other daughter who was a happy princess.

“Anything wrong?” the birthday girl’s mother came over to ask.

“No, no,” I lied. “Just looking for a costume that fits.” As large tears rolled down my daughter’s face, I noticed that the properly dressed girls posing for their pictures were taking this photo-op seriously. This was not a princess moment, this was a ‘Top Model’ photo shoot as one of the moms yelled, ‘Work it, girl.’

That’s when the light bulb exploded in my head and I realized that the birthday party scene had gotten out of control. If my daughters were experiencing hair salons with photo shoots when they were four and five, what are they going to do on their wedding day? Shave their head and get a tattoo?

I decided to place some limits on the parties I threw and the ones we attended. Only one party a weekend is the new household rule. As for the parties we throw, I am aiming for the simplicity of cupcakes and pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, but it’s hard. Our kids are so used to being entertained that I’m looking for new ideas. For my daughter’s next birthday, I’m considering an educational party about cities in Europe with photos and food from the places I visited.

As if that’s going to happen. I think I’ll change the cupcakes to a chocolate sheet cake, stuff a pinata with candy, and make her birthday party what it’s really about--the consumption of sugar by all.