A little bit gentle, a lotta bit FAFO.
Finding your niche in the parenting game takes many years to figure out. It’s a lot of “WTF” moments that usually balance out with the wonderful moments – those little surprise hugs and “I love you, Mommy!” right after your kid pushed the other one down and took her new toy. My kids are now 8, 5.5, and 3.5, and I think that I’ve finally found my style.
My kids know that I am their biggest fan and that I will always have their backs. That being said, I will never coddle them. I was raised to be independent, and I am doing the same for my kids.
I know when they need the love and the extra hugs, but I also know when they need a little tough love to handle a situation (or homework, I’m there now!) on their own. I want my kids to know that they don’t always need help, but it’s there and available if they do.
I always laugh when I see something on social media that says, “Gentle parenting is for gentle kids, I’m raising gangsters,” and I couldn’t agree more. My kids all have very different personalities. My oldest is sweet and responsible. My middle is quite literally the Energizer Bunny in a 5.5-year-old little boy’s body. My youngest is the baby and thinks she runs the world and everything in it. (BUT she’s the baby and I think that’s how it goes!)
They all have different emotional needs, and while I have a good handle on it, it’s still something that I’m learning and discovering daily. My oldest is the most sensitive and the least “gangster” of my kids. The other two have their photos in the dictionary under the word “gangster.”
With them, my parenting style is a whole lot of FAFO. If you don’t know what that stands for, it’s “F Around and Find Out.” (I think you know what the F really is.)
With only a 20-month gap between them, they can be the best of friends, but more likely mortal enemies. Their day starts and ends with hiding favorite things from each other, launching themselves off the couch and arguing over couch cushions, fighting over what will be on TV, fighting over who’s plate is more blue, fighting over who sits next to Mommy (I have a side for each of them, BTW), fighting over who can see the sun better, you get the picture.
There are only so many times that I can say, “You’re going to get hurt” or “She’s going to take your stuff if you keep doing that,” before sh*t hits the fan. (And in this house, that fan is constantly blowing that sh*t everywhere.)
I have a phrase that I say after the fifth time that we’ve jumped off the outer ledge of the trampoline, and realize that it, in fact, wasn’t a good idea. I say, “No boo-boo, no bones, no blood!” aka, you’re good! Continue with your shenanigans, and maybe think about how Mom actually was right in telling you that something wasn’t a good idea.
