Lessons in Masochism

Last weekend I thought I had a brilliant idea. I had the kids by myself and we needed a week’s worth of groceries. After they both spent Saturday playing in a basketball game, going to a party, watching cartoons and playing video games at their friends’ houses, I decided Sunday morning that the fun was over. I had access to free babysitting (their grandparents) while I did the shopping, but I chose to have the kids come with me to the store instead.

I wasn’t trying to punish them for anything, but apparently I was trying to punish myself. I told myself before we left that it was necessary for my children to learn that life isn’t all about having fun. That the food they enjoy every other day doesn’t just magically appear in the refrigerator. As their parents, my wife and I make sacrifices so they can eat when we tell them they can.

And that’s true. It’s better to learn young that life is full of responsibilities. This strategy of teaching your kids what it takes to run the household is a classic parenting technique. I certainly don’t suspect that all parents do this, but I also know it isn’t a practice specific to me. So I felt vindicated in my decision.

I also soon felt very stupid.

Because instead what happened was the kids enjoyed themselves at the grocery store and I spent most of the time telling them to “put that back,” “stop jumping on the cart,” and “when no one’s looking, spit the milk back in the carton!”

Why do we do this? I think it’s so we can convince ourselves we’re teaching a valuable life lesson, which in turn generates a positive feeling of our parenting skills. The only problem is, this rosy feeling towards the enriching lesson we’ve imparted is wildly disproportionate to the actual impact it makes on our kids.

The reality is, there are plenty of opportunities to teach the importance of responsibility. It’s kind of ridiculous to convince yourself that this one moment will be the one that drives home the point, especially when it’s to your own detriment. I sacrificed much more of my own happiness in order to keep my kids from extending theirs.

And I knew by doing this that I was in for a rough trip to the store; that by the car ride home, I would be beaten down and my kids would be singing the theme song to Sophia the First. I didn’t care. It was necessary, I told myself.

How masochistic is that? It’s perversely masochistic, I tell you. Way more perverse than anything you might request in the bedroom.

My kids could have spent a pleasant morning with their grandparents, with a lifetime ahead of them to learn about responsibility (not to mention the numerous times we had already taught them about responsibility), and I could have enjoyed a quiet trip to the store without people looking at me as if I was the one who put splotches of chocolate sauce all over an open pack of toilet paper.