I try really hard to raise good kids. I teach them the importance of manners. I read ALL the food labels, even when they beg me not to, and make them pronounce the ingredients correctly if they want me to buy it. I go to all the teacher conferences, with a notebook. I even nursed them when they had teeth.
I have spent my entire parenting career worrying about their safety and health.
“Look both ways before you cross the street.”
“Brush your teeth.”
“Wash your hands.”
“Don’t touch that.”
“Don’t lick the dog. Yes, even if he licked you first.”
I send them out into the world with instructions.
“Be on your best behavior.”
“Say please and thank you.”
“Don’t whine.”
“Don’t lick the dog. Yes, even if he licked you first.”
People tell me they are pleasant children. They say that they are courteous and friendly, even helpful. Once, my oldest offered to vacuum my mother’s house.
Teachers tell me they are a joy to have in class. They are hard-working, diligent and conscientious, with leadership skills.
I started to think things were going well. Then one day, something happened and I realized that I may be a complete failure. I’ve failed in teaching them even the most basic of life skills. It became apparent that if I left them to survive in the wild (or college, which is, terrifyingly, not that far off) they might not make it.
It was a typical busy Saturday. I was running late — because I was sure I could do just one more thing — and had just finished loading the dishwasher. I had already pushed my luck so I yelled to one of my offspring, “Put the soap in the dishwasher and turn it on.”
Then I ran out the door. I started the car, realized I had forgotten something and quickly shot back into the house. I came face-to-face with a startled child.
Normally, I would have been super-proud at how quickly my request was being honored. Because usually they wait until I have finished my errands and am putting the key in the door, then scurry like a thousand cockroaches when the lights get turned on. Except cockroaches have a stronger survival instinct. And a better sense of purpose. My kids just don a look of pure terror and start spinning in circles, throwing dog food into the fire and stacking kindling on dog beds.
But this time, the child in question was holding a bottle of dishwashING soap. And the dishwasher door was closed. I looked at the bottle, then back at the child.
“Did you just fill the dishwasher with that?”
We both looked at the bottle, like it was an explosive device that might blow at any moment.
“Yes?”
I started to feel the panic rising. Not forgetting that I was really running late now, I pulled open the dishwasher door and felt a rush of relief when I saw the empty soap cup. It must have just run out because the cup wasn’t closed.
As this lovely, logical thought tried to process itself through my brain and make itself true, another part of me realized there was, in fact, no soap running down the door and began to consider other possibilities. With dawning dread, I looked at the closed lid of the rinse aid compartment.
“Did you put the soap in here?!”
During the ensuing silence, I could smell the fear.
“Yes?”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” I started having Brady Bunch flashbacks of a kitchen flooded with suds, “I’m late. I have to go. Do NOT turn on the dishwasher. Find Dad. Tell him what you’ve done.”
And then I ran away. Before I had backed out of the driveway, I was calling my husband.
“Use the shop vac. Try to suck the detergent out. Or flush it with water. Just keep running it until it comes out clear. Do NOT turn on the dishwasher.”
“I’ll figure it out. Just go.”
This is a statement that I never want to hear. Because it evokes both relief and horror. Mostly horror. To be fair, most of the time, he does the job. Most of the time, he takes care of the disaster. However, sometimes, in the process, he just creates a different disaster.
But this time, I had no choice. And much to my chagrin, I would not be able to micro-manage the situation from afar (Brian’s favorite).
I returned home hours later. The dishwasher was running. The kitchen was not covered in suds. (On the contrary, it was a God-forsaken mess, the likes of which only my husband could create, and abandon, without any shame. But that’s another story). I looked to him for an explanation.
As soon as he said, “so then I got the syphon,” I thanked God that I had not been there. I was then regaled with tales of children who lack the scientific understanding, and also the physical skill, to syphon dish soap. They do, however, have the ability to laugh with abandon, unaffected by the suffering of others. Particularly when their father is choking on lavender castile soap.
Though I’m sure the soap cleanse got Brian’s mouth shiny and sanitized, I figured he wanted to get rid of the taste. It’s easy to make your own mouthwash that isn’t laden with chemicals. And it doesn’t include dish soap. I like this recipe from theindianspot.com.
Ingredients:
Cinnamon powder – (1/2) tablespoon
Lemon – 1 small
Raw honey – 1 tablespoon
Baking soda – 1 teaspoon
Warm water – 1 cup
A spoon
A small bottle with a firm cap
Method of Preparation:
Pour the cinnamon powder into the bottle.
Squeeze out the juice of the lemon and pour into the bottle.
Add honey to the mixture.
Add baking soda.
Finally, pour warm water into the bottle and stir. (You can also shake the bottle well by fitting the cap tightly.)
How to Use:
Shake the bottle well, take 1 to 2 tablespoons (depending upon your tolerance) and swish for a minute or so. Spit and rinse with cool water. And try not to think about your completely helpless children who, one day soon, will go out into the world as representatives of your parenting.
Laurie Nigro, a mother of two, is passionate about her family, her community, and natural living. Laurie resides in downtown Riverhead and is co-founder of the River and Roots Community Garden on West Main Street.
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