Just when I thought (for the 87th time) that I was going to finally reach a less worry, more sleep stage of parenting, I was recently awakened by my toddler, who had just peed in her bed. Due to the saturated state of her sleeping quarters, my husband and I welcomed her into our bed only to have her pee again 12 minutes later (or so it felt). I woke up to not only realize that I was soaked with my child’s urine, but that I was also now sandwiched between my husband on one side and all three of my children, ages 3, 6 and 9, on the other side.

It wasn’t one of those roomy, 10-pound sandwiches that you see on some travel-around-the-country-looking-for-the-biggest-craziest-sandwich show either. It was like that soggy, smashed-flat sandwich in “National Lampoon’s Vacation” that turns out to have been marinated by Aunt Edna’s dog. Yes, I was smack-dab in the middle of a pee sandwich yet again. Darn it, though, I had been through this little-sleep, lots-of-laundry-the-next-day situation one too many times and this time I was standing my ground.

Since the girls’ room was an already-been-peed-in zone, I decided to slink quietly off to the comforts of my 9-year-old son’s small, yet cozy, pee-free paradise. As I snuggled in solo and thought about how annoying it is to have someone stage a midnight coup over your comfortable bed almost every night for nine years running, I couldn’t help but also think that his room was as cold and his bed as small as he complained that they were. Huh, maybe it wasn’t all him just making up excuses.

I did manage to get to sleep, however, and our 12-year-old obsessive-compulsive cat managed just as well to wake me right back up. Actually, I drifted in and out of coherency while he meowed, walked on top of and clawed his way into my psyche for close to an hour. I finally gave in and snapped awake enough to travel three floors down to the basement and fill up his empty food dish. I wasn’t thrilled to see that there was plenty of food that had been spilled out of the bowls and onto the floor, but Sebastian will only eat if the food is in the actual bowl and fully covering the bottom of it (that would be where the obsessive-compulsiveness comes in).

I returned to bed only to come face-to-snout with our dog a few minutes later. I decided to finally just get up, but facing the day showed me no mercy. I attended to the usual morning bouts of psychological tug-o’-war and getting-ready-for-school stoppages. The older kids and I went through yet another lengthy buying/packing indecision process and then ended with our daily mad-dash-for-the-bus grand finale.

I was looking forward to just plowing my tired self through the day without forgetting any major obligations and then hitting the hay with my customary, but oh so wrong, assumption that I would somehow finally be afforded a good night’s sleep. Halfway through the day, however, I suddenly lost interest in sleep and just about everything else.

After explicitly telling my littlest, Lucy, that she was not to get the nail trimmers down, I found her bathroom stool barely balanced atop the toilet in perfect position to snag the nail clippers and possibly a concussion and/or broken bone. I immediately replayed in my mind the two broken bones, CAT scan and other various ER activities we had already experienced through her brother and sister. We then had a serious heart-to-heart about the horror that is household accidents involving 3-year-olds.

Not half an hour after our little accident prevention powwow and not two minutes after I checked on her, I heard a scream and a crash from Lucy’s upstairs bedroom. I prepared for the worst, but was still a little shocked and awed by the scene I came upon. I found my beautiful, perfect, couldn’t-love-her-more daughter wedged between two objects, up against her wall and completely inverted.

Head on the ground. Feet straight up in the air. Crying hysterically.

Since she was crying and moving and I couldn’t stand to not hold her for one more second, I grabbed her and held her and cried at the thought that something could go so wrong so quickly. I could impart on her every bit of warning and wisdom that I know, get an emphatic “I’m OK, Mom!” and find her world all turned upside down just minutes later.

There is nothing like the scary, what-if moments to remind you about how insignificant a few missed hours of sleep are. These are the days (and nights) that parenthood has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in them.

Shannon and her husband, Michael, are raising three children in Sylvania. E-mail her at letters@toledofreepress.com.

Tags: Family Practice, parenthood, pee, Shannon Szyperski

This entry was posted on Saturday, May 12th, 2012 at 8:26 am and is filed under Arts and Life, Family Practice.
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Barring a few months before my wedding when I stayed with my parents, I’ve been on my own since I was 18. I have nothing against my parents; they just did such a good job raising me to be autonomous that it seemed like the thing to do. I had looked forward to joining the ranks of the adult world for some time and felt capable of doing so.

Having my “Autonomous Adult” card issued to me was more difficult than I had anticipated, however. My assumption that turning 18, working hard and paying my own way in the world would give me sufficient credibility with my fellow grown-ups was far from the truth of the matter. In a culture where many people are living with their parents and working their way through school into their mid- to late 20s and beyond, 18 seems to still be considered childhood regardless of your life’s path.

After nine years in the business, I’ve found that American parenting carries with it the same age-discriminating practices. As I entered motherhood at 27, I figured that my final piece of the grown-up puzzle was in place and that there would be no more denying my access to the Adult Club (no, not that kind of adult club). Considering I was about five years later jumping into the parenting pool than most of the rest of my family, I even considered myself to be of the older parent variety.

Yet, my firstborn wasn’t even walking before I learned the actual hierarchy that tends to exist in parenting circles. Although not all, many a parent older than me quickly gave me the “you’re so young” heave ho before I even had the chance to get to know them. Young? I had already spent almost a decade living as a bona fide adult. I had also been taking care of other people’s kids since adolescence, so I likely had quite a few other parents of all ages beat in the experience department (though I quickly found that child care experience has nothing on actual parenting).

In short, I just didn’t get the age discrimination and still don’t. Even as I nestle into my more veteran parenting position, I consider anyone who is raising a child to be my parenting equal. I don’t care if you have just had your first child at age 45, if you were just featured on MTV’s “Pregnant and 16” or if you are raising someone else’s biological child as your own. As far as I’m concerned, we’re all essentially in the same boat and should be helping one another navigate this thing called parenthood.

For all of those times I have felt like an outsider in my own occupation, there have also been wonderful, accepting individuals who were willing to not only acknowledge my presence in the club but were also more than willing to show me around. Even when I was someone fresh-out-of-school taking care of other people’s children, I found a few kind and enlightening allies who treated me as a peer and gave me advice that I still use to this day with my own children. Just knowing that there were people out there who believed in my capabilities gave me the confidence to build my skill set and become better and better at this whole thing.

As much as we’d like to believe that reading the right parenting books will somehow allow us to master the art of raising children, I have yet to stumble upon one that comes close to paralleling the wisdom and insight that my colleagues offer on a daily basis. I have found that such eye-opening advice has little to do with the adviser’s age or even level of experience. Sometimes, more than anything, it most has to do with finding someone who is also experiencing a kid like mine physically, mentally or emotionally.

Often the most helpful of parenting nuggets comes when I least expect it or from a direction I wasn’t even looking. In fact, the one common denominator in best learning how to parent seems to be just keeping the parent-to-parent connection, of all types, wide open. No discrimination necessary.

Shannon and her husband Michael are raising three children in Sylvania. E-mail her at letters@toledofreepress.com.

Tags: autonomy, Family Practice, parenthood, Shannon Szyperski

This entry was posted on Friday, April 13th, 2012 at 9:16 am and is filed under Arts and Life, Family Practice.
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