I inherited a Brownie Troop from a woman with organizational skills that could put Martha Stewart to shame. She had three adorable offspring who always had their permission slips turned in two days before they were due and carried nutritious lunches in boxes that didn’t have Corgi bite marks on them. Needless to say, with her at the helm of Troop 229, sashes were pressed and worn, badges were sewn on in a timely manner, forms were given to parents WEEKS before a field trip and the entire year was mapped out in cohesive, detailed descriptions. Then I took over. Thankfully I had two brave female cohorts to assist me in taking on Troop 229: my warm, fuzzy “Don’t make me bake or plan a darn thing” mother (AKA Noni) and my friend “Terry the Trooper” who could easily be reincarnated as an air traffic controller.

At first it was a fairly easy gig, especially during the “Brownie years.” Seriously, you paint a picture, get a badge; show them how to set a table, get a badge. There might even be a badge for breathing and having a pulse. We would sing a few songs, have some laughs, eat large quantities of chocolate and life was grand. Then we “stepped over” into the Girl Scout world.

Scout jargon

I was quickly introduced to a whole new Troop vocabulary that included words such as “protocol,” “authorization” and “regulations.” Terry was thrilled — I was mentally mapping out my resignation letter. I discovered that you actually had to work, I mean work, to get a badge. It was then that I made the executive decision that we would do our best with the whole “badge thing,” but our meetings would focus around two questions: “Where are we going?” and “What are we eating?”

It was highly suggested by the powers that be that our troop attend a weekend camping excursion at the official Girl Scout camp. In true Troop 229 form we opted to camp in my parent’s 1.5 acre yard complete with hot tub and electrical outlets to make chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast. While the girls were being dropped off with their gear, one of the dads quietly took me off to the side and told me in no uncertain terms “You’ll be needing these” while handing me 12 little airplane Vodka bottles. Tempting as it was, I knew “stress relief through liquid libation” was nowhere to be found in the scout guidebook and could not accept.

We set up our tents, ate outdoors, played in the water and ended the night by the campfire. Someone thought it would be a brilliant idea to play “Truth, Truth, Lie,” a game where you tell two truths and one lie about yourself and everyone must guess which item is the falsehood. Our first player started out with, “My dad’s in prison, my sister’s pregnant and my grandpa died while sitting on the toilet.” At that moment Noni started singing Kumbaya! We retired to our tents only to endure three continuous hours of giggles from the girls. FINALLY everyone settled down until the so-called responsible adult tent that contained my dad, mom and Terry broke out in fits of uncontrollable laughter. I guess “Vodka Dad” may be smarter than I originally estimated. Maybe I should have utilized the contraband.

The morning after

We survived that overnight adventure and, with newfound confidence, several weeks later, headed to the Toledo Zoo for another sleepover experience. It was truly amazing having the opportunity to walk around the zoo in the dark of night. While in front of the lion exhibit, a male lion decided to bust out his best seductive roar in hopes of trying to lure his female companion inside. It was impressive, but the lioness was not interested. However, one of our Troop 229 teens volunteered. Meanwhile Abigail whispered in my ear “Mrs. D can you believe it?” I agreed that the calls of the wild are incredible. “No,” she said, “I was talking about that girl over there from Troop 134. Would you ever be caught dead wearing those pants with those shoes?” Well, so much on expanding young minds. We progressed to our sleeping quarters in the basement of one of the zoo buildings. I was jolted awake by a freaked out “Terry the Trooper” who informed me that a mouse had just made a pilgrimage up her sleeping bag and across her face and that it would take DECADES before I would be forgiven.

The resignation letter that I had been formulating finally made it to pen and paper after five years. I remember writing that I learned far more from the girls than they could have possibly learned from me. There were times I pondered my sanity while staying on as their un-uniformed, slightly crumpled leader, but I recently bumped into one of my former 229 alumnae. She ran into my arms, gave me a big hug and told me that in Troop 229 she felt as if she belonged for the first time in her life. I wonder if there’s a badge for that.

Parenting is an ugly business. The old saying is that those who are partial to the law and sausage should abstain from watching the creation of either one for fear of turning off their fondness for the outcome. That statement is equally applicable to raising children. Every day I make mistakes, missteps, and stupid decisions.

A simple request to pick up a toy is met with “No” and then “I don’t want to.” “I told you to” and “you will be punished if you don’t” are my responses as my daughter continues to test how the performance of the request can be prolonged. After going back and forth a few times the request ends with frustration on my part and some dramatic outburst from my daughter. “No one loves me,” is her current one. I hug her, tell her I love her, and in the best way possible tell her that is why I want her to obey. That works on a six year old about as well as it does a 16 year old.

What can make parenting difficult are the competing goals. Mine is to be the best parent I can be and to give my kids everything I didn’t have. At the same time, I want to balance that by making sure they don’t have too much. The central goal of my children’s lives is to undermine my primary goal. Not intentionally, but
simply because of their natural desire to do what they want without parental involvement.

Testing the waters

My children are only six and two but that conflict is already in place. The lines are drawn and the battles are well documented. Even though we are slogging through the trenches of daily warfare gaining very little ground, my wife and I believe we are winning the war. That is either because we believe and listen to our own propaganda or because, every once in a while, we see a breakthrough.

Once the “pick up your toy” episode concludes, my daughter generally does what she was asked to do and, after some prodding from my wife, apologizes. 
“I’m sorry daddy for not obeying,” said in her small soft voice, melts any anger
or frustration. 

I can’t imagine having these battles alone and I admire those who do without a choice.  My wife helps me learn from the mistakes and shares in the doubts of trying to do the right thing.  As I talk to her at the end of the day, trying to figure out where I went wrong and how I can avoid the same pitfall in the future, she consoles and offers advice. “Don’t beat yourself up. I understand. I lost my patience with them today, too” is a sampling of her encouraging and soothing advice regarding a difficult day of parenting. Our willingness to stand together in this battle makes the process of parenting possible. In spite of seeing it made every day, we still enjoy the sausage.