Why I’m Dismissing the Tattletale Chronicles

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I don’t mean to brag, but I’m pretty convinced my kids are gearing up for careers in journalism. How can I tell? They have an undeniable urge to report every single detail of their lives. Not only that, but they are fiercely competitive about it, practically climbing over each other to be the first to share their latest scoop, as if it’s breaking news that I absolutely need to hear. They shove each other aside and shout to be heard, eager for their tales to reach my ears before anyone else’s.

However, if they want to make it big in the news industry someday, they might need a few tips—particularly this one: Not everything is significant. Sure, I need to be informed about important events, like “Someone is drawing on the wall with your lipstick!” or “There’s blood!” But when it comes to the details like, “He said I have too much hair,” or “He tried to dip his toe in my cereal,” let’s just say it tests my patience.

As if they weren’t already a handful, these unnecessary reports come delivered in a tone that resembles a mosquito with a bad case of PMS. I can always tell when a dramatic tale is about to unfold, thanks to the high-pitched whine of “Mom-meeeeeee?” that crescendos toward the end. And then the fun (and by fun, I mean the part that makes me want to grab a suitcase and flee) kicks in: “He said I look weird!” “He called me ‘orange!’” “He said my underwear looks like something Big Bird would wear!”

I genuinely want my kids to feel heard, and I want them to come to me with important matters (emphasis on important) without fear of being dismissed. But how do I convey that some things are worth sharing while others are just noise? It’s a frustrating parenting paradox, much like telling kids, “Never take candy from strangers, except on Halloween when it’s from people you don’t know.” It’s challenging for them to grasp what counts as “significant” when, in their world, someone commenting on their breath smelling like oatmeal is a pressing issue that demands a sprint across the house.

Most of the time, I ignore the trivial tattles. If I respond, it only reinforces the idea that these stories deserve my attention, which they absolutely do not—unless they want me to completely lose it.

Take, for instance, the other day when one of my sons complained, “My brother called me a poop face!”

I replied, “Well, are you a poop face?”

He pondered this for a moment before saying, “No.”

“Then he’s mistaken, and it’s not a big deal. Now go play.”

My rule is simple: if no one is bleeding, in physical danger, or doing anything outrageously risky, their complaints will either be met with silence or a quick brush-off. Yes, I want to know if one of my kids is attempting to leap off the top bunk, but if the biggest issue is that “he said I’m shaped like a banana,” they’re on their own.

I consider it a valuable lesson in conflict resolution.

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Summary:
In this humorous take on parenting, Rita Thompson shares her experience with her kids’ incessant tattling. While she encourages open communication, she also sets boundaries on what is worth reporting. By ignoring minor complaints, she teaches her children valuable lessons about conflict resolution, all while maintaining her sanity.