Eddie Haskell

Do you know Eddie Haskell? If you grew up on “Leave it to Beaver” re-runs like I did, you know he is the perfectly groomed suck-up who tries to win adults over with flattery and impeccable manners while wreaking havoc behind the scenes. I remember how he’d pour on the charm with Mrs. Cleaver (who wasn’t buying it), and then turn around and act like a real turd to the Beav.

Maybe you have a real-life Eddie (or Edwina) Haskell in your or your children’s lives. You’ll note charm, looks, intelligence-- all the outward appearances of perfection. Then every once in a while you get a glimpse of an inner Eddie/Edwina. Perhaps it’s a quick elbow jab to a younger sibling when no one appears to be watching. A cutting remark. A mean ploy that the teacher never sees, but all the kids do. A desire for division instead of unity.

I’ve been trying to understand why Eddie, and the modern day equivalents in my own life, get under my skin so much. I think it’s because I want genuine kindness, not perfection. I think perfection is not only over-rated, it’s impossible. And I believe that when we are real with each other, everyone benefits. Eddie isn’t about being real. Eddie is about projecting an image.

I think back to when I was a new mom and my son was perfect. He used baby sign language, showed early brilliance and a keen sensitivity to all around him. To listen to me talk you would have thought he would get his doctorate by age 6, followed shortly by the Nobel Prize.

When I came to realize that he wasn’t perfect, my baby daughter wasn’t perfect, and neither was their mother (for some reason I had accepted this fact about Tom much earlier)…. it was a momentary bummer, but it was somehow freeing. I think it helped me become a less self-righteous and annoying parent.

I tell myself when I run across seemingly perfect kids (at least when their life stories are narrated by one or both parents), that there is likely at least a tad of behind the scenes drama somewhere. Maybe it’s screaming meltdowns during homework or a refusal to practice the piano… but something!

My kids are thoughtful and kind. Often. They care about the poor and the disenfranchised. Sometimes. They are well groomed. On occasion.

Other times they leave people out. They are grumpy. They play favorites. They don’t make eye contact. They mumble. They are selfish. They choose popularity over what’s right.

And you know what? That describes me too. Depending on the day, my hormones, my Diet Pepsi intake, and whether or not I’ve stopped to pray.

I wish we didn’t have a conspiracy of silence, in which we all pretend that everything’s great all the time. I wish other moms would share their kids’ problems so I could share mine. I wish I didn’t have the urge to unmask all the little Eddie and Edwinas, as if bringing them down a notch would somehow build me up.

I guess I wish none of us were sinners. As if.

Sleepy? Meet Grumpy.

We are always telling our kids to “use their words” instead of lashing out in anger or frustration. Sometimes in the few minutes after school ends, but before we can get a snack, our minivan seems more like it's carrying zoo animals, instead of a mom, a dog, and two kids. Sometimes there is sluggish silence, other times guttural groaning, and occasionally animated interaction.

When I think about everything that could have taken place while the kids have been at school, I wonder how they can even be lucid at this point. We’ve heard how asking kids, “How was your day?” is generally ineffective, and I think it would take a lot of maturity and self-awareness to be able to put into words the essence of all that transpired: sitting still, writing, navigating social waters, taking tests, playing musical instruments, getting in trouble, wondering who is best friends with whom, being hungry, using self-control…

The highs and lows in this 6 ½ hour time span are boggling to me. During that same 6 ½ hours I’ve had time alone at home, in my car, on the computer, and at work. These 2 little introverts of mine have been “on” all day long.

Sometimes we don’t always know what makes those around us grumpy. It took me 10 years to realize that Tom’s occasional stony silence and sourpuss looks probably had more to do with the Yankees losing than anything the kids or I had done. I know now to ask my generally pleasant husband, “Was there a big game last night?”

For the kids, grumpiness can come from anything from a scratchy tag to feeling left out in the neighborhood or wondering if a friend still likes them.

The things that get me grumpy are endless. Have I been fed in the last 3 hours? Do I have to pee? Did I get enough sleep? Okay, I know I sound like a newborn, but, truly, any of these can throw me off.

What about the morning newspaper? Can I find the Style section? Have I had caffeine? Ok, what about shoes? If my shoes are uncomfortable, watch out!

So if physical discomforts can send me into a tailspin, what about the larger issues—spiritual, social, relational? And people who are really, really needy? Yep, that throws me off, too.

I remember standing in the high school hallway with a colleague who insisted on detailing his Julius Caesar lesson plan to me at 5 pm. I tried to be polite and interested, but after a while, my mind went elsewhere. I had been there since 6:30 am for heaven’s sake-- would this guy ever stop talking?

He accused me of not giving him my full attention, which was true, but would he have chosen reality over my superficial nodding? Would he have preferred knowing that I was in a dire tampon emergency situation and that my mind was…elsewhere?

I guess what I’m saying is we don’t ever know what’s really going with other people. Sometimes we aren’t even self-aware enough to know what’s going on with us.

I was super grumpy to Tom and the kids this morning because I’m feeling stressed about being away Thursday through Sunday. Was I really pissed that Molly couldn’t find a uniform shirt to suit her fancy, or was I thinking about all the laundry I’ve done and have yet to do before leaving tomorrow?

When my kids are grumpy, I try to give them grace, knowing that while they can’t be disrespectful or hateful, home should be a safe place where they can relax and recharge.

When I’m grumpy, they tend to give me my space—“Look out—here comes Mom.” I know my grumpiness is NOT good model of “using my words”—as I huff and puff and sigh and pace throughout the house.

But home needs to be a safe place for Mom, too. I guess I could wear a little sign that says, "It's not You, it's Me" unless, of course, it isn't.