In my (brief) experience, being a parent is a kind of an organic, natural thing. By that I mean even if you don’t know anything (I didn’t) or read many books on the subject (I read one, and it was aimed at dudes and wasn’t really serious (for the record, I wanted to throw Dr. Sears out the window even though I’m a hippie)), you really figure it out as you go along. As it turns out, the figuring-it-out-without-knowing-what-the-hell-you’re-doing thing is actually where a lot of the fun of being a parent comes in. It’s like chess (only fun) where you have to consider your next move in the context of it being your next move and the context of its potential results in the future. It’s the kind of thing where you maybe lead with your gut (maybe your soul, if that isn’t just too much) instead of your head.

For example, I didn’t need to read any books or have any discussions on any terrible parenting message boards to know that I will never let my kid cry it out, ever, for any reason. I don’t judge those who do, but it just isn’t for me. I won’t put him on a leash in public (I saw one the other day and I admit I see the appeal, but no). I don’t do time-outs. I didn’t force him to undergo any completely unnecessary medical procedures but you’re damn right he’s vaccinated. I don’t understand the point of juice. I figure he’ll potty train (I don’t even know if they still call it that. That’s old school. Tell me they don’t call it potty learning now. Or elimination education.) when he’s ready, someday. He’ll get rid of the pacifier he uses for sleeping tomorrow — er, someday.

(Sidenote: Do you ever wonder about Ben when I go on and on about “I” when I talk about parenting? We pretty much always agree on everything (I know, annoying) but I say “I” here because I’m really writing only about myself and I think it would be presumptuous to lump him in and say “we.”)

Then something like this happens.

We’ll give Soren some markers and a piece of paper and for a while he colors on the paper but then he’s all woohooooo my artistic expression cannot be contained by your silly and arbitrary boundaries, authority figures! I am a young boy who must draw and draw free!

Pop quiz:

What would you do in this situation?

• stop the drawing before it got to this point
• instruct the child on proper drawing procedure and surfaces
• scream and/or drink vodka and then write an ALLCAPS-LADEN BLOG POST ABOUT THE INCIDENT
• make the child clean it up
• spank the child
• express your displeasure verbally and/or through a series of disapproving glances or clucks
• admire the child’s creativity
• clean it up yourself?

Much of parenting is walking a tightrope between raising a sheep-like, rule-following, chickenshit conformist or raising the kind of kid who will grow up to be incapable of gainful employment and relegated to attempting to make a living as a blogger or lifestyle guru or whatever similar shit people will be doing when our kids are adults. Of course, most of us would prefer to avoid both of these tragic outcomes and instead raise kids who grow up to be just as self-actualized, intelligent, and thoughtful as we fancy ourselves. Am I right? We want our kids to grow up to know the rules and follow them when absolutely necessary but also to know when to bend or break the rules, or when to advocate in favor of or fight for new rules altogether.

In the above situation, I tend to admire the child’s creativity and clean it up myself. I know what you’re thinking — I’m well on my way to raising a kid who will grow up to be, what, Honeycrisp Darling, lifestyle guru and peddler of the Radical Self-Love Vibrator, yours for the low cost of $100US.

Here’s the thing, though. I think rules are important and you have to learn to follow them. But sometimes, you’re too young to know what the rules are and it’s going to take a while for you to learn them. Soren doesn’t yet reliably understand that paper is for drawing and the table isn’t. I suppose he could reliably know that if I were interested in micromanaging his marker experience, but what would that look like? Would I have to say “No!” every time his marker touched the table? When it continued to happen, would I have to take the markers away? What would he learn from that? “I shouldn’t draw on the table” or “Mom’s mean and doesn’t let me have any fun” or something else?

I don’t have answers to these questions and to me, the end result of washable marker on a table is harmless enough that I don’t stress about it and might even take a picture. I think it’s possible to not care about drawing on the table now and to have the eventual goal of teaching Soren that as a general rule, we draw on paper and not furniture.

I guess if I had to sum up my philosophy on this sort of thing, it would go something like this: I believe that children are inherently good and should be allowed to explore their worlds freely as much as it is possible and safe to do so.

I tend to do two things around the new year. First, I get a little introspective and shit. As 2011 wound to a close, this took the form of existentialism as contemplated after reviewing one’s old journal entries. Specifically, I read a bunch of shit I wrote on Live Journal back in the day. From January 3, 2005:

Everyone talks shit about resolutions, and I didn’t plan on making any. I already go to the gym and know I’m probably never going to eat better and I’m not terribly bothered by any of my vices. Something about the rush of New Year’s Eve, though, made me re-think things a little. We were up and out and getting so much done and it wasn’t all exciting but we were living and doing and I like that, so I decided that we should resolve to be People Who Do Things.

That’s vague but it’s not. There’s so much to do here — there are mountains to hike, trails to ride, museums to visit, parks, picnics, the symphony, temples to visit, classes to take, movies to actually see in the theater, people to meet for a beer, restaurants to discover, friends to make, books to read — there’s just exciting stuff everywhere.

And well yeah, that’s nice. I’m not sure we ever became People Who Do Things, but we did change in other major ways. For example, in December 2006 I went on and on about how I never wanted to have a kid. You know what’s awesome? Going almost your entire life without ever wanting to have a kid to changing your mind at just about the last possible minute. The result is that you go into kid having with no expectations and no years of hope and aspiration and knowing just about nothing, which for me at least means every day is a new surprise and totally fucking — if I can use a word nobody uses any more but I kind of have to — rad.

In life, if I can get a little Ditka for a minute, there are some things I just know, like, deeply, to the core of my being. For example, eating meat is morally wrong. (Note: This is true for me. I don’t judge others.) Working out really hard really often is really important for both physical and mental health. Of all the religions, Buddhism makes the most sense and gives me something to strive for even if I’m one of those people who’s always asking questions and never really accepts anything. I don’t know where these things came from — I didn’t learn them from my parents or directly from anybody else I’ve encountered. They’re just kind of there, as part of me, for whatever reason.

Although I know absolutely nothing about parenting and am, as the mother of one relatively easy-going toddler, pretty amateur hour about the whole thing, there’s one thing I know, the way I know the things I really know. Children, early on, are pretty joyful. They want to experience joy as often as possible. It doesn’t take much — maybe some armpit and neck tickles or saying “Marco!” “Polo!” “Fish outta wawa!” in the bathtub. Or maybe a cupcake every now and then after you decide occasional homemade sweets are okay. Or whatever.

That brings us to the second thing I do around the new year, which involves, like everybody else in the world, making some sort of resolutions and/or goals. I try to keep these relatively quantifiable and therefore capable of having success or failure measured. (Bake at least one awesome thing every month. I love baking, which manages to be relaxing and inspiring at the same time. I’ve got a calendar and I’m gonna use it. Run some specific distance but only if it doesn’t make me totally miserable. Buy no leather. Read at least one book in 2012 — seriously I have no time and Sports Illustrated comes, like, every week.) But some vague ones always manage to sneak in. (Improve my photography. Try not to buy much stuff unless absolutely necessary. Really let myself dive into hippiedom; everybody knows I’m going to do it one of these days so I might as well get on it.)

The parenting-resolution/goal I have is quantifiable and vague, and it’s going to sound really stupid written out. I want to (at least) try to experience with Soren at least one moment of pure joy every day.

Holy crap, that sounds just as ridiculous as I thought it would, like some forced bullshit you’d hear at a blog conference that everybody would annoyingly tweet about for like 10 minutes and then promptly forget. But I don’t want fake, manufactured joy. I want the kind of joy that happens when Soren and I are sitting at the table after dinner and we look each other in the eye and bust out laughing, the kind of bliss that happens when I take him across the street and pull him around the snow in the sled. These are simple moments that don’t require any fancy equipment or anything. Ingredients: equal parts me and him. That’s it.

I’m convinced — completely and deeply and by the way I hate adverbs — that the more joy your toddler experiences now the better his life will be later. This is probably dumb, but it’s one of those things I believe, like vegetarianism and slacker Buddhism. Now, when the joy comes so easy, I want to make sure Soren experiences every last possible drop of it. It’s going to be harder later, when he’s a long-legged (I trust he will take after Ben in this respect) teenager in his room wearing baggy or skinny — who knows — jeans listening to music I don’t understand (although truth be told I probably will unless it’s boy bands or Insane Clown Posse because in addition to dressing like a college student I usually have the musical taste of someone many years my junior). My job as his parent is to make sure he experiences the most possible joy as a child, and while I’m solely capable of making it happen I’m totally gonna do it.

2012 is going to be awesome.

So much of what I read about parenting on the internet falls into one of two categories:

1. Oh my goodness! Having children is so magical and awesome! Everything is perfect! The sun shines every day and unicorns frolic in the wild flowers that grow in our expansive, beautiful yard! My hubsie and I love each other so and our delightful children in their exceptionally fashionable c/o clothes are so fantastic there is no way you’d believe it if you didn’t see it for yourself. Speaking of, here are 597 Instagram pictures of our morning, where we shared homemade toast and eggs that were brought to us by the chickens themselves in a little basket with a bow on it on cleverly mismatched vintage china and perfectly not-quite coordinated linens. I will spend the rest of the day gazing at the world through my rose-colored hipster glasses and being better than you. Please support my sponsors.
2. Holy crap! Having a child is so hard! OH MY GOD IT’S JUST CHAOS UP IN HERE WHAT? I haven’t showered for 27 days and I’m bringing two sippy cups to the playground today one for Brayden and one for me and that one will be filled with VODKA. I AM SO EDGY CAN YOU FEEL IT? Sometimes at night I stare at the wall and wonder who I am and what I’ve become and why I’m doing any of this to myself and then just wait for the world to end because it’s just so very hard. Our dog just ate the Christmas tree and pooped in the bed. Please enter my BlogHer contest and RT.

From my (limited) experience, this is all bullshit. Having a child isn’t always magical and awesome, but it’s not always miserably hard, either. I mean, sometimes it can be magical and awesome and sometimes it can be miserably hard but like everything, there’s some of each and it’s way more complicated than many parents will lead you to believe.

The truth, at least from my experience, is that you figure out what your beliefs and priorities are, use them as your guide, and go from there. More often than not and barring tragedy, things will work out. In time, you’ll figure out what really matters to you and what doesn’t, what you’ll compromise and what you won’t. I think it’s good to have some of each — if everything really matters to you and you won’t compromise on any of it, you’ll end up going nuts; if nothing really matters to you and you compromise on everything, you’ll end up miserable.

For example, in terms of what I’ll compromise and what I won’t, these are some things I won’t compromise.

• Feeding Soren a reasonably healthy vegetarian diet. While Ben and I are in charge of what he eats, he won’t eat meat. He gets vegetarian food at daycare. He has stuff like frozen pizza or non-homemade mac & cheese on occasion but other than that, we try to avoid processed food. We limit sweets. We never eat fast food (we don’t eat out much, but that’s for financial reasons) but we don’t serve him green smoothies, either. That said, I try to avoid being a smug hippie vegetarian and you’ll never hear me mention “real” food.
• Keeping him clean. I’ve never been a neat or a clean freak, although I do my best (which, next to my mom, is not very good). Still, I’m a bit of a clean freak when it comes to Soren. It’s not a snotty, look-at-my-perfect kid thing. It’s that I’ve realized keeping him clean when he’s not able to do so himself is one way I can demonstrate my love and respect for him. I respect him enough to not let him run around with food crusted on his face. Sure, sometimes there are boogers and sometimes there’s oatmeal residue on his pants, but for the most part, he’s not covered in grime. I know that if I couldn’t wash my own face, I’d want someone to do it for me. That’s just basic human dignity.
• Treating him with anything but love and respect, in general. Your mileage may vary, but to me this means that we don’t spank, insult, or belittle. We provide a safe environment with clean clothes that fit (sorry about the floods the other day) and an assortment of interesting things to do. As often as possible, he has my undivided attention.
• Keeping myself fit. This is partly for me and partly for him. Unless I’m deathly ill, I work out for 60 minutes 5 days a week. I believe this is necessary for my physical and mental health. I plan to maintain my current weight and not gain back those same 20-25 pounds I’ve gained and lost many times in my life because I want to be healthy and set a good example in terms of weight, fitness, and eating habits (which, honestly, could improve because sometimes I eat cheese bread dipped in ranch for like three meals in a row).

There are some areas where I’d prefer not to compromise.

• Cloth diapers. This is mainly my thing but I also believe it’s healthier for Soren. He’s 2 years old and has never worn a disposable diaper. I don’t want to come off as some sort of holier-than-thou Earth mother, but I think that’s kind of cool. The only reason we’d have to compromise on the cloth diapers is if we switch to a less-expensive daycare that isn’t willing to deal with them (obviously, I’d prefer not to do this, but geez the $$$$$).
• Speaking of daycare. It’s important for Soren to have the best education (including daycare) possible, within reason. I’d like to keep him where he is until he starts school, but if we really can’t afford it (we can’t), we might have to switch. When it’s time for kindergarten, we plan to send him to public school but have concerns about our neighborhood school and I’m not sure how we’ll handle it (homeschooling and religious schools are not for us).

There are some areas where I have compromised.

• Formula. I was all about breastfeeding. It didn’t work for us, ever, even after seeing lactation consultants and trying everything. I exclusively pumped for as long as I reasonably could (that was, no lie, completely, terribly, absolutely miserable) but at around 7 months (it’s almost funny that I don’t remember exactly when it happened, because I thought it was the end of the world at the time), my supply and our vast freezer stash of breast milk had run out and, horror of all horrors, we had to give Soren formula. You know what? The world didn’t end. Everything was fine. It turned out to be no big deal.
• Some tv. In my ideal world, Soren wouldn’t watch tv. But realistically, that would mean, for example, that Ben and I wouldn’t watch football while Soren is awake, which is completely crazy. He sometimes watches Yo Gabba Gabba, Curious George, or Peppa Pig (I love Peppa’s brother George, who’s always, “Dinosaur! Rarrrrr!”).
• Annoying toys. There are some toys I won’t allow (e.g., things that do absolutely nothing but make noise) but I’m mostly much more chill about this than I thought I’d be. It’s not all fancy wooden toys handmade by young existentialists in Denmark around here. Some of his toys have batteries. Some make noise. Some don’t. We have more toys than we need, but I try to rotate the stock (keeping some in storage) so he doesn’t have too many options at once. I believe that having too many toys/too much stuff teaches children to become overly invested in possessions/consumerism (I know this from experience) and I prefer simple toys that allow him to use his imagination instead of being passively entertained. But I don’t stress about it.

I could (and did, sorry) go on and on. There are so many things. You might go into parenthood thinking, oh man, I’m going to breastfeed and cloth diaper and cosleep and wear my child every second and whittle all of our toys out of wood taken from the sustainable pine forest on our property. You might do all those things. You might not. You might make fun of people who go into parenthood thinking they’ll do all those things. Somewhere along the way, though, you’ll figure out what works for you and your family. And there’s a good chance that if you’re a reasonably good person and you do a reasonably good job raising your child, he or she will grow up to be a reasonably good person, too.