Obviously, I never planned on being an aggressive parent. I didn’t believe in corporal punishment, and tiger parenting seemed like a recipe for years of future therapy. I just wanted to be, oh, I don’t know, a normal, reasonable, loving parent.
I didn’t think I needed a book or a label to tell me how to do that. I’d just set reasonable rules, enforce reasonable consequences, and give a reasonable amount of encouragement and affection.
In my years of working with kids, I’d met far too many who had simply not been parented. You know the kids I’m talking about. The ones who come over for a playdate and help themselves to any snack they want, leave trash on the floor, and laugh when they grind slime into every fiber of your couch.
I assumed that was the result of being too “gentle.” What hippie-dippy parenting style lets kids get away with being entitled pests?
It’s almost comical how clueless I was about the concept of gentle parenting. I utterly failed to make an essential distinction: Indulgent and gentle aren’t synonyms at all.
Speaking of comedy, I genuinely thought I had this parenting thing figured out. I didn’t get what was so hard about it. My daughter, Lily, was 5 at the time. She followed rules, ate all her veggies, loved school, you get it.
I rarely had to be the bad guy, and I thought we had a pretty healthy relationship. Then, March 2020 came along and handed me my parenting a**.