The world (oh, fine, a whole bunch of moms in their own little world) has been aflutter the last week or so over Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother by Amy Chua, a law professor and generally terrifying individual.  She begins by establishing what her daughters were never allowed to do in her pursuit of the perfect academic record for them both: sleepovers, school plays, help little old ladies across the street.  She then goes on to explain, clearly, pleasantly why A+ grades, concert-worthy piano-playing and throwing little old ladies under a bus if they are between you and your piano are so much more important than macaroni picture frames.

Of course, since all the kerfuffle poor Mommy Dearest Chua has been shocked, SHOCKED! that mothers and convicts everywhere have publicly expressed their horror at her child-rearing methods.  And in private we’ve all had our moments of “Shit, if only I’d thought of threatening to burn my kid’s stuffed animals to get her to brush her teeth!”  Psychologists and child behavior experts have warned that this kind of pressure can backfire.  Well, duh, just ask Lizzie Borden’s parents.  Oh, yeah, you can’t, they’re dead (forty wacks from your ax-wielding daughter will do that).  And, may I remind you that Lizzie got away with it.  Ms. Chua, do you have eyes in the back of your head?  You need ’em.  I hear a violin can leave a mean welt.

As you can tell I jumped onto the “this woman is a hard-hearted lunatic” bandwagon with both feet.  OK, let’s be honest, I hitched a couple of Clydesdales up to a flatbed truck and galloped off with it.  It only took me this long to express my opinionated opinion because I had to wait for the anger to simmer down into a less searing, swear-word encrusted white hot ember.  Now, I am not one of those touchy-feely “my children are perfect” mothers.  Listen, would I call my sons Thing One and Thing Two if either of them could play more than Heart & Soul on the piano or prove that e is irrational in the context of a power series?  And, would I sit on the floor eating chocolate pudding with my 13-year-old daughter if I could listen to her read Sartre at eighteen months?  Well, probably.  I never did get No Exit.

Anyway, as I read through some of the Tiger Mother’s easy steps for raising a suicidal, prime number-spouting, serial killer I thought about some of the things I have forbidden my children to do.  I wondered how these hard and fast rules of mine have affected them.  I know that my two boys in elite (schm-elite) colleges and girl in a high (schmy) pressure (schmeshure-oh you get it) private school bear the scars of this ‘Hey, they look happy to me’ mother.  For that I am not a bit sorry.  Sure, I’ve made mistakes as big as the value of Pi and I have looked over my shoulder more than once waiting for one of my little darlings to chuck a kazoo at me.  But, I can honestly say that I have never invested my identity in theirs.  I have never valued their accomplishments as my own or their failures as anything but giving it the old college (high, middle, lower, remedial) school try.  Well, that’s not true.  If they failed–really failed–at something important like, say flying their Jedi fighter ship into the center of the Death Star, or breaking someone’s heart, I would most certainly take some responsibility.  And you can bet there’d be a heck of a lecture.

However, if one of them knocks over a dry cleaners there will be Hell to pay.  Everyone knows only ex-child stars hit dry cleaners.  Or video stores.  Or drive onto the off ramp.

So, in the interest of raising non-felons and pretty level-headed kids, here are a few things that the children of this Toll House Mother are never allowed to do.

1. Keep a straight face during the Vita-Mita-Vegamin scene from I Love Lucy.

2. Watch Entertainment Tonight over Access Hollywood.

3. Forget to say ‘Fly Carefully’ when Dad travels.

4. Pass up a chance to pee before you get in any car.

5. Say no to dessert (they can always give it to me).

6. Stay inside on a sunny day.

7. Hang up on someone they love.

8. Leave the house angry (this is a tough one because, let’s face it, teenagers are an angry bunch–and so are their mothers).

9. Play a piano (if one of my children spent more than five minutes in front of a piano I would assume they were on drugs and then there’d be trouble).

One must be firm on some things, certainly the accomplishments and behaviors that will be the making of the man and woman.  For instance, much like Ms. Chua, I do require that if my child undertakes something, she or he must finish it.  Here is Emma practicing her ukulele.  She couldn’t go to the bathroom  until she mastered “Hey Soul Sister.”

And look, here she is having a time out because she didn’t know who Mary Tyler Moore is.  Oh, what?  It’s just snow.

This is an old picture of the kids on a desert island.  They were acting up on a sailboat and when I said “Don’t make me pull this thing over” I meant it.

Look, I don’t doubt for one minute that Tiger Mother loves her daughters, I am certain she does.  And, this is the very best way she knows how to raise them.  Her method may well work, and her daughters are now and will be remarkably accomplished inmates, sorry, members of society.  It’s just that I never really think of child-rearing as this giant, complicated algorithm.  It’s not rocket science.  To me it’s more like those Chinese finger puzzles.

You know, the deceptively simple straw tubes into which you put your finger.  The harder you struggle, the more you push and pull at it, the more you force an outcome, the more trapped you become.  It is almost painful, slightly frightening.  But, as soon as you soften your grip, gentle your touch, you understand the counter-intuitive nature of the puzzle.  Simply give a little and your fingers slip out, unharmed.  You are wiser for this exercise, the fragile straw tube is unbroken and, what do you know?  It’s magic.  Just like raising a child, and the wisdom that comes when you realize it’s not your child, this kid is only on loan and you’d better send him off without a dent.  Go ahead, you can do it!

So, young grasshopper, the next time some snot-nosed, no-neck monster comes up to you (even if it’s your kid) and says “Pull my finger” (no, not that joke), give him the satisfaction of a bit of resistance.  Growl and wriggle and tell him he’s going to be in big trouble.  Then, lighten up.  Release yourself from the trap of trying to raise perfect, productive, over-achieving, mug-shot-waiting-to-happen kids.  As soon as you do (and get that finger out), you will be a White Bread (I may not like you but I love you, all you can do is your best, be kind, be forgiving), Pop Song Singing (what do you mean it’s “There’s A Bad Moon on the Rise”?  I always thought it was “There’s a bathroom on the right.”) Mom like me.  Plus, you’re hands will be free to hug your kids (and reach for that martini).  Believe me, you’ll all feel so much better.

But, that’s just my opinion.