May 18th, 2012
Ever been totally aware that your perspective was skewed, but found yourself in a situation you couldn’t quite talk about? Wanting an opinion, or a clearer perspective, but knowing that there is no way to get one? I’m there now.
If I’m right, the situation I can’t talk about is only going to get worse before it gets better. If I don’t clear my head and clean up my perspective, I might be the one making it worse.
So I can’t divulge the details, names or places or much else, but I’m gonna try to get the basics out. Ever felt like someone was mind-fucking you? Like they viewed your life — you — as some sort of personal entertainment? Like the only consistence between you and another unnamed person was a lack of respect and an abundance of bad excuses?
It sucks to feel that way. If you’ve ever been there, my guess is you know, or you’re pretty sure you know, who and what I’m talking about. The problem is there are rules to being a blogger and I’d be breaking a big one to come right out and say it. And even though I’m currently feeling like I don’t give a damn who gets hurt or what gets thrown away, I know I’d feel differently after the fact.
When everyone thinks they are right, how do you figure out who’s wrong? What if nobody is wrong? I know I’m not wrong. Bet unnamed person knows they aren’t wrong too. Maybe it isn’t anyone’s fault? Maybe shit just happens and trying to save yourselves is just prolonging the inevitable? But it comes down to choices I think, and that’s the part of this that skews my perspective. Choices. You can choose to change something. You can be made aware of something and decide that you don’t like the awareness. And you can change.
Some people spend their entire lives changing everything to please others. They sit back and wait for their day. And when it doesn’t come, they start resenting their change. They start resenting another’s lack of change. They’ve disillusioned themselves into thinking that someday, their changes will somehow become their victory. It’s a choice I guess. Probably not a very good one.
Others never bother. They know they’re wrong and they don’t care. Or they know the wronged will accept it and they drag that inevitable truth around with them, using their knowledge to mind-fuck others. That too is a choice. Again, probably not a good one.
Eventually, resentment and anger build. There’s no place to put it all! It has to boil over, infecting anyone in its range with it’s poison. Because resentment and anger are poison. And once infected it can be real hard to get rid of. Like Swine Flu hard.
So what do you do when you’re done with the merri-go-round of bullshit and half-assed attempts? When is it enough? When do you stop trying?
I always tell my boys “Never give up!”. When DO you give up? When do you know you’ve exhausted all the options and it’s time for damage control? And how do you fix extensive damage?
I thought there was a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow? What will I do when my rainbow disappears?
May 14th, 2012
Oh Hugh Laurie, I’m going to miss you.
I can’t believe it. House M.D. is coming to an end. Let’s face it, you can only watch the reruns so many times. I’ll buy every season on DVD but it won’t be the same. This is the story, plight and downfall of a House addict. No. Really. I. LOVE. HOUSE. And….I. LOVE. HUGH. LAURIE.
So a few days ago, I watched the last available episode on Hulu until the end of this week and found myself sitting on the couch, staring forlornly at the screen.
But I need a plan. I need to have something when House is gone. What am I going to watch now?
Sliding through the “Most Popular” section, I flipped swiftly past Grey’s Anatomy. I’m an E.R. fan. I’m a House fan. FUCK Grey’s Anatomy.
But there is nothing else to watch. Trauma doesn’t have enough episodes to support my addiction to medical based television shows. Chicago Hope just isn’t my thing. Life is a show enjoyed by The Husband as well and if I watch those episodes, I’ll be forced to watch them again when he gets home from work. Damn.
I gave in. I turned on Grey’s Anatomy and OH. MY. GOD. I’ve been robbing myself all this time! I cannot believe I blatantly refused to watch this show before this! My girlfriend would abandon me if I was on fire and this show was on. But I never even watched a single minute of it.
I found a viable replacement.
No. Wait. There is no show that can replace House. But I found something to ease the pain. Yeah. It’s better than drowning myself in Tequila and sorrow. And Grey’s Anatomy is a fantastic show.
I mean, yeah, I’m totally stuck on Hugh Laurie (broken as he may be, there’s just something sexy there) but I gotta say Patrick Dempsey is candy for the eye and his attitude, yeah, it’s pretty sexy. I’ll survive on Grey’s Anatomy. It won’t replace House though.
The Husband should be thrilled. I found another medical drama to force me to completely ignore him should he arrive home in the middle of the show. So much for his mini celebration with the end of House. Serves him right I suppose.
May 13th, 2012
Last night, I laid in bed thinking about how much having children has changed me. People say it all the time, “I’m a different person because of my kids.” But what does that really mean? What changed?
When I became a mother, I knew exactly what I wanted for my kids. I had beliefs – strong ones — and I wasn’t willing to bend on them. At least I thought I had beliefs I wasn’t willing to bend on. But as time ski’s by, I find that with each passing day, those beliefs are challenged and thrown back on the drawing board for revision. Everything I thought I knew I now know, I just don’t. In fact, I know now, that there isn’t a single personal belief that isn’t fluid.
All the people in my house, my husband, I, and the boys, we come together in this whirlwind of personalities. Each of us with different beliefs, needs, wants and dreams. We are all so different. Sometimes, I wonder how we will survive each other, clashing violently when faced with our own uniqueness.
The Husband and I were always self-sufficient. I’ve been able to take care of myself since I was 5 years old. While that seems like it should be irrelevant, it has greatly influenced the way I raise my children. It’s been a shock to The Husband and I to realize that some children simply aren’t able to be so independent. The Professor, in all his intelligence, needs our guidance every step of the way. The Gremlin pushes us away with a never give up attitude, certain he can handle anything. But both The Husband and I always felt it was important, perhaps making it too important, to be so self-sufficient. And it was very hard to accept The Professor’s inability to flow with the rest of us. With time, we’ve been able to, but not without a lot of tweaking to our personal beliefs and ambitions. Not without accepting that we weren’t raising miniature versions of us, but rather, little human beings who will be as different as they are ours.
Having children has made us more flexible. And it’s confused the hell out me. Once upon a time, I was a mother-to-be. And as a mother-to-be, I was very naive. I thought they’d be just like me. I thought The Husband and I agreed on everything parenting, unlike many, and that we would never find ourselves inadvertently stepping on each others toes. But we do that far more now, than we ever did before children. And even The Husband has had to learn to accept that our children are not reflections of us. Hell, they hardly seem like us at all some days.
Motherhood has added a hesitation to my step and that is not a bad thing, I don’t think. It reminds me that it isn’t about me. It isn’t about what I want, who I want them to be or how I want them to feel. It’s all about helping them figure out who they are and who they want to be. It’s about accepting that.
It seems like that should be so easy, doesn’t it? I mean, they are my babies, so how could I ever not accept who they are? But when faced with a super sensitive little boy who preferred reading to car shows, The Husband was visibly ruffled. When I started throwing elaborate parties for The Professor to impress people with because he was having social issues (yes, shamefully I used a well-stocked game room to try to buy my child friends - I know better now), I truly thought I was doing a good thing. The truth was, The Professor didn’t care because his peers simply weren’t on his level and he didn’t want their friendship. But I had a really tough time accepting that. I still have a hard time when he wants to do something just plain weird, or when he brags that his classmates think he’s gross because he likes to dip his chicken fingers in orange juice and honey. Or when he chooses to wear a raggedy Pokemon shirt to school when he has 19 brand new skater shirts in his drawer. But he doesn’t care about his image yet. Or maybe, he is just more wise than I in this area, and has already decided that he doesn’t care what others think as long as he feels good. Acceptance. It’s all about acceptance.
I thought I was grown up when I was pregnant with The Professor. I thought I was grown up and prepared when I got pregnant with The Gremlin. I was wrong. I’m still not completely grown up. I have a lot of learning left to do, if the motherhood experience so far is any indication of what’s to come. But I finally see the parenthood map I’ve been looking for. It’s full of question marks. Every path has 4 paths branching off of it, and I’ll be needing to decide which path to take. Signs with arrows pointing in 6 different directions are on every corner, but the street names never change. Acceptance Blvd, Tough Decision Avenue and Self-doubt Lane are really long roads and at some point, they collide, leaving us with choices to make — growing up to do.
How has motherhood changed me? Completely. Twelve years of school and 8 years of college has nothing on Parenthood. How has motherhood (parenthood) changed you?
May 12th, 2012
Dear Boys,
If you’re reading this, you’ve already made it through half of this blog and you’re probably disappointed. You probably expected this blog would be full of joy and fun memories because mothers LOVE being a mother, right? Reading passages where I complained about motherhood, said you were annoying or pondered if you’d be living in my basement when you were thirty, yeah, probably made you sad.
Motherhood is an experience I wasn’t prepared for and I haven’t grown into it or adjusted. Being a parent is hard. Being a mother often feels like a relentless string of terrorist attacks on my self-worth, my belief system, my womanhood and my dignity. I often have to remind myself that if I am doing the best that I can, then that is the best I can do.
I sure hope it turns out to be good enough. I question that every day. Every day I wonder if some mistake I’ve made is going to be the reason you’re in therapy as a grownup. Every day I wonder if you’ll remember me dropping the F-Bomb on a particularly hard day or if you’ll remember the peaceful hikes in the woods or soft nuzzles when you were hurt or sad. Which make the most impact on you?
This blog is a realistic account. Someday, inevitably, you’ll wonder if you’re alone. Someday, you’re wife will wonder if she’s alone. Someday, you’ll wonder if you can be a better parent (or a worse one on a bad day), and all the stuff you read here will be reassurance. It’s a little bit harder for me to imagine that, since you’re both boys and won’t experience the same thing as I do as a woman. But you’ll experience self-doubt (we all do) and you’ll have a wife and children and obligations that sometimes feel like they are threatening to consume the very core of you. And I hope that at the very least, this blog will help you, and your family, to know that it’s not you. It’s being a parent.
But just in case you feel like there is more negative than positive in this blog, I need to share something with both of you.
For every post I have ever written, there has been a beautiful memory attached to it, no matter what frustrations I was writing of. The only easy thing about motherhood has been loving you. It sounds cliche to say that I am a better person because of the two of you, but I’ll risk it because it’s true. I can’t imagine what motherhood might hold for me in the future but it is especially hard, no, it’s impossible for me to imagine my life without you. You’ve tested my patience and strength and you’ve challenged me to rise above what I knew of motherhood before you both came along, and I’ve risen to the occasion solely out of love for the two of you.
So today, one day before you honor me and all that goes into being your mom, I want to thank you. Because I wouldn’t be honored as a mother if it weren’t for both of you. And it has truly been, and will always be, an honor, a privileged and the most beautiful experience of my life, to be your mom.
I love you both.
Love,
Mommy
May 5th, 2012
The problem with having more than one child, is one often influences the other. What would be a stage in the home of an only child, is an epidemic in a home with more than one.
The Professor started it. He came home from school one day and told The Gremlin to “never say Ball Sack around mommy”. Translation: “I am appointing you, my little brother, to be my entertainment for today. I know you’ll repeat (over and over and over) whatever I say. And I know you’ll get in trouble for it.”
I should have ignored it. But like many parents, I didn’t. They both got in trouble for it.
And the next day? “Mom! Check it out! My poop looks like a volcano!!”, the Professor screams from the bathroom, “I think I see a fossil! Eeeewww, Mom!”, and hysterical laughter bubbles out of him.
The Gremlin, like the predictable little brother, was yelling from the bathroom for a week about the shape of his poop.
And then, one morning as I was taking The Professor to school, the local hip hop station was talking about men’s underwear. And a caller mentioned that that sixty dollar thongs are only okay for men if you can stick money in them.
How is it that my children don’t hear me tell them not to give the dog lollipops, poke forks through the screens on the windows or throw rocks in the pool, but they catch everything on the radio, especially if it’s some sort of talk about underwear, butts, penises or boobs?
The Professor, loud enough for me to roll the windows up, says “Eeeww! I would never touch that money! No Way. Who would keep their money in their underwear? If they put my money in their underwear I would never touch it!” and erupts into another fit of giggles. In the backseat, The Gremlin is threatening to “kick the caller in the weewee.” Wow.
When The Professor came home from school, he discovered that he was unable to find the $3.00 I had given him the day before. He was crying when he came downstairs but I had no sympathy. “You have like 5 different banks upstairs and yet you choose to toss your money on your bed or worse, on the floor.”, I said. “I’m not replacing that money. I hope you find it.”
Later that evening, The Professor was grumbling about how his day was ruined because he couldn’t find his money and I was working on getting The Gremlin ready for bed. The tub was full and I sent The Gremlin in the bathroom to get undressed. When I walked back into the bathroom, The Gremlin is sitting in the tub with his underwear still on.
“Buddy, you forgot to take your underwear off!” I said, laughing a little bit.
“No I didn’t mom!”, he responded, “I’ll lose my money if I take them off!”
“What do you mean? No sir, you need to take them off. Come on, I’ll help you.” I say.
And as I take them off, dollar bills fall into the tub.
“Where did you get this money and why it is in your underwear?” I asked him as we stood looking at each other.
“It was brothers Mom, but he won’t touch it now if I put it in my underwear, so now it’s mine, right?”
LMFAO!
Let this be a lesson to siblings everywhere. Be careful what you teach your younger siblings.
April 12th, 2012
This blog has been on my mind a lot lately. Everyday, sometimes several times, I have these words running through my head — these promises to myself that no matter what, I am going to blog today. I wait all day for it. It being bedtime. I rush through my nightly chores, and sometimes I even boot up the old laptop so that it will be ready to go when I’m done.
I squeeze out a couple of sentences in between yawns and reminders that “It’s bedtime! No more drinks! I gave you a kiss already! Stop messing around!”, then with watery eyes and feeling utterly exhausted, I relent and decide “I’ll finish this tomorrow.”
And I ignore the horrible guilt I feel as I lay in bed watching Hulu. I ignore the reminder that I have obligations to you — to myself, to write something. I have an obligation to you to be honest when I write. That’s what this blog was about always and that’s what it will always be. I have an obligation to myself because this blog is me, one hundred percent. Without it, life turns into a giant black hole threatening to consume me and eventually destroy me. Because this is where I put all the things the “real world” just can’t accept. All the parenting blunders and feelings of inadequacy — all the F-Bombs (the real world thinks I have it all together) and the head in hands nights of exasperation and exhaustion — that part of me lives here. With the triumphs, vulnerability and sentimentality, this face time rarely gets a glimpse of. My favorite part of me lives in my writing, which lives in this blog.
All my blog friends (many of whom are far more real to me than the plethora of fake smiles and pretend our lives are perfect people I entertain in the real world) are being neglected by me. And I feel bad for that. This blog has become a barren wasteland riddled with spam comments and those little rolls of weeds you see blowing across the desert. That bugs me. And it’s no small detail to mention that I pay for hosting. What a waste if I’m not blogging right?
I have no real excuses my friends. Nobody died and nobody has been super ill. My laptop didn’t stop working (yet) and I’m not too busy. I’m too exhausted. I rent myself out too much to too many people and before I know it, I’m forgetting about the one person I probably should be taking extraordinary care of. Myself.
No excuses. I can only say “The dog ate my blog. The kids spilled the juice, stained the carpet and were far too quiet to be up to anything but bad, The Husband thinks I’m superwoman because I refuse to let him think anything else and I’m exhausted. So if you’re reading this, know that I’m not gone. I’ll be back to blogging regularly. I’ll be visiting you blogs again (I love your blogs). I promise.
Eventually.
April 8th, 2012
Sometimes, the times I feel the least adequate are the times when I should be feeling pretty darn good.
It’s Easter. We are not religious, but the boys don’t need a bunch of sugar, so we celebrate the coming of spring more than Easter itself. The boys always get some kind of outdoor toy for Easter and a chocolate bunny with little tidbits of other candy. Not a lot because I’m funny about the candy thing. Anyway.
This year, it was bikes.
I’ve always said that my boys are complete opposites and the same holds true in this department. The Professor still doesn’t know how to ride a bike, and it isn’t for a lack of trying to teach him. He’s terrified. If I left training wheels on his bike, he’d happily ride his bike with training wheels until he was well into his thirties. But there comes a point where manufacturers stop selling bikes with training wheels and riding a bike is a basic skill and one I feel he should learn. So no training wheels on this bike.
They took showers after finding their bikes next to their Easter baskets, we had breakfast together and headed outside with optimistic attitudes. I was going to teach The Professor to ride. Today is the day!
FAIL! We’re back inside an hour later. I don’t know how to teach my child to ride his bike.
I learned to swim because my dad would throw me off his boat in the middle of The Hudson and tell me “swim or drown”. I learned to ride a mower because if I did something wrong, he would squeeze my knee or my arm painfully and curse at me about listening. I don’t remember how I learned to ride a bike and if the above are any indication — maybe that’s a good thing. But that isn’t any consolation to me because I want my son to learn to ride!
The Gremlin, he has this. He isn’t afraid of anything. He hops on the bike and takes off! He has training wheels but I’m confident he’ll be riding without them in no time. He’s also 4, so there’s no rush. But The Professor would just as soon not ride a bike because he is afraid to fall. He is more interested in the shadow of me holding the seat of his bike. He’s already asking if he can come get his scooter. Five minutes into the experience, colorful language is dangerously close to rolling off my tongue. Thirty minutes in, I consider briefly simply pushing him off the bike so he’ll fall and see it isn’t so scary. That idea is fleeting, seems cruel and is dismissed. Forty-five minutes in, I don’t even care if he learns anymore. I just want to go inside and start drinking before noon. Because I don’t know how to teach him to ride. I don’t know how to teach him to relax and trust me — trust himself.
How do you teach a child to ride a bike?
March 31st, 2012
Motherhood is turning me into a crazy nut case.
When The Professor was around 2 or 3, Autism was in the news every day. They’d show these terrifying commercials (do you remember them?) where parents would show videos of their child playing and talking and being lovable, then switch to the same tearful parent and their child sitting with them with a blank stare. They would say how sudden it was. ”One day, he woke up and didn’t want to be touched. He lost all his skills. He started doing repetitive movements for long periods of time.” I was terrified.
Then there were the Shaken Baby Syndrome commercials. You’d see a child in a wheelchair. Permanently damaged because he’d been shaken. That fucked me up too. I remember once the babysitter called me. She said The Professor was just laying there on the floor staring. She couldn’t get an accurate temperature on him but he was lethargic and listless. And as I made the two hour trek home, all I could ask her is “Are you sure he didn’t hit his head? Are you sure you didn’t shake him when he was acting up?” An offensive question surely, if you didn’t have children, but a reasonable one if you were a parent that watched any small amount of television.
And there was SIDS. SIDS didn’t have a lot of research. People didn’t know why it happened, how it happened or who was at risk. They knew only that your child should be placed on his back to sleep. And children were rapidly dying of SIDS. With no explanations. And The Professor, HATED sleeping on his back. He simply wouldn’t do it. I didn’t sleep for 3 years, I swear. I constantly checked and my heart rate would speed up when I did sleep and woke to find him turned on his stomach.
In those days, I thought I was terrified. I thought that these were the worst things ever that could happen and I drove myself crazy thinking about them (more likely obsessing over them) and trying to avoid these tragedies.
Today, things have changed. Today, Autism is still making the news as the prevalence of it in our children is hard to ignore. But there’s more. There are undisclosed chemicals in our foods (pink slime) and young people shooting guns in school. There are people who snatch children from bus stops and teachers who allow oral sex acts to be performed in their classroom by third graders. It’s everywhere! There are EMF dangers (radiation) and if you haven’t read about this, google it and see if it doesn’t scare you even a little. I almost disconnected my internet because of what I read.
As I drive The Professor to school, I quickly surf through the radio stations, taking care to avoid news stations, because I might just turn the car around and take The Professor home if I hear all the horrible things happening outside of my carefully protected world. But in my head…..in my head I am living through horrible scenarios because it terrifies me to hear other parents say, “He was such a nice kid! I never knew he had an arsenal he planned to use hidden under his bed!”, or “Neighbors describe soandso as a vibrant, respectful child, and they are trying to make sense of the tragic way he shot his mother”, or “He just wanted to get soda and skittles. Now we’ll never see him again.” In my head, I’m living through a phone call from the school explaining that there has been a shooting. Or I’m wondering what’s in the rest of the food in my freezer that could cause cancer in my children. I’m waiting 30 seconds longer at the green light, because I might be a smart driver, but the person at the red light opposing me looks like he might bolt through it.
It’s terrible and it’s terribly scary. I’m turning into a crazy nut case. I’m losing sleep worrying about the things most people schlep off with a “It won’t happen to me.“. It sure makes the good ole’ days of Autism commercials and Back to Sleep campaigns seem less scary. I mean, in comparison to the children who are losing their minds and adults exploiting our children, and our government exploiting us.
Do you do this — drive yourself nuts thinking of all the things we see in the news today and praying fiercely to “please, please” never be the victim of such things? Do you avoid certain situations or think twice before you go to that staff party? Do you Do you check your doors and windows religiously every night? Twice?
Motherhood is turning me into a nut bag.
March 28th, 2012
The Huffington Post published this article two days ago. I read it yesterday and I’m sharing it with my readers today.
I will only be quoting parts of the article, but you can read the entire thing at the above link.
In an effort to eliminate potential “unpleasant emotions” among students, the New York Department of Education has placed a ban on mentions of “birthdays,” “dinosaurs,” “Halloween,” and “dancing,” in city-issued tests, the New York Post reports.
According to the paper, the mandate is meant to curb fear that references to those topics might stir controversy among students. Dinosaurs, officials said, could bring up evolution, Halloween could suggest paganism, and birthdays might create animosity among students who are Jehovah’s witnesses, since they don’t celebrate them.
Okay. First off, really??? This is what matters? This is where people in a position of educational power are putting their energy? Into making sure none of their students are not offended by the wording in standardized testing? I wonder, how much money does it cost to revamp these tests? How much time? Is it enough time and money to perhaps make sure our 8th graders can read? Is it enough time and money to put some decent text books, desks and perhaps hands on learning experiences, into the classrooms NY is so concerned about offending? Or maybe, and I’m just throwing this out there, NY (as well as every other state in this country) should be more worried about the amount of tests their students are taking and the consequences these tests have, instead of who might be offended by the wording of the test? Just a thought.
Secondly, what exactly are we teaching our children? What message are they getting from these censors? Are they learning open-mindedness? Are they learning tolerance? No. A ban like this simply teaches our children that your birthday is an event that needs to be hidden just in case someone else, by the choice of their parents or themselves, chooses not to celebrate. By taking poverty out of tests for fear that students may feel excluded, I fear we are removing the awareness necessary to change a very real problem in our country. And that change; it’s in our children. The very children who will no longer see the word “poverty” in their testing because heaven forbid our students are aware that poverty exists. I mean, while NY is at it, will they dress those of their students who are wearing old or worn clothing? That would make their students feel a lot less excluded than removing the word poverty from their testing. I’m just saying…
The department is also banning mentions of “divorce” and “disease,” in case students have loved ones who are separated or suffering from an illness. “Slavery” is also flagged and “terrorism” is considered too scary.
Department officials told FOX News Nation that the mandates are simply meant to be sensitive to a diverse student body.
“This is standard language that has been used by test publishers for many years and allows our students to complete practice exams without distraction,” a Department of Education spokeswoman told the publication, insisting the move is not censorship.
Divorce and disease? In case students have loved ones who are separated or suffering? Um, is this not life? Is it not reality? Does experience not likely make one more aware and educated about the topic? More likely to understand the subject matter?
These things are not a distraction! The true distraction is how much attention is given to standardized testing. And how little attention is given to ensuring a well-rounded education or making sure that the 70% of american eighth graders that today, cannot read proficiently, can.
I recently read an article that studies show that high school testers rarely pay any mind to the test. In fact, they spend much of the testing time guessing and making elaborate pictures with the dots on the test sheets (christmas trees are a popular image created).
Distractions. Pshhhh. Our students spend more time testing, than they do learning. Perhaps the test itself is a distraction. It’s definitely a disservice to our youth, whom cannot read, because there is no time left to teach them in between relentless testing.
“The intent is to avoid giving offense or disadvantage any test takers by privileging prior knowledge,” Pondiscio told the New York Post. “But the irony is they’re eliminating some subjects, like junk food, holidays and popular music, that the broadest number of kids are likely to know quite a lot about.”
Good Luck With That.
People are different. We come from different places, have different jobs, different religions and different hopes and dreams. How can one make the assumption that mentioning a student’s poverty status is offensive? I know lots of poor people and many of them are happy right where they are. They struggle, but they appreciate the things they have. I find it offensive that NY would suggest that poverty is offensive!
This is not the education I hope for my children to receive.
Offend my child! –He’ll learn to handle that.
Challenge my child’s beliefs! –He’ll learn to defend them.
Make my child aware that the people around him have different circumstances! –He’ll learn tolerance.
Tell my child about the scary things in the world (or at least allow him the chance to know they exist)! –Someday, he’ll be able to make changes.
March 26th, 2012
Sometimes I worry that The Professor is so disorganized because of me. Or that he doesn’t like physical activity much because I don’t encourage enough of it. I wonder if the boys would be better served by me (as a parent) if I was more strict about video games or tv time. Sometimes I worry that I am ruining them.
Good Mom. Bad Parenting. And I think that is the truth of it.
I don’t always limit the children’s video game exposure and I don’t censor it. I don’t follow game or movie ratings. There was a time, years ago, when The Husband and I fought viciously, in front of The Professor. Fighting, as in, dishes flying, cuss words and accusations and even holes in walls. One day long ago. Back before we both grew up.
The Professor, he craves all sorts of structure. If I call a family night (which I admit I don’t do often enough), he starts making plans. Big, elaborate plans that include doing the same things on the same days of the week at the same time.
“Mom, how ’bout every Sunday we could do this! It could be a day to rest and hang out with each other! At 2 pm we could play on the trampoline, then at 3 pm we could make cookies and at 4 pm……” Apparently our definitions of “rest” are quite different.
It’s enough to drive me nuts because it’s impossible! I mean, sure, people do it. I see all kinds of parents do it all the time and they are far busier than I am. but life just doesn’t work that way for me. I might try to plan, but someone always pukes, or falls. Or I’m just not in the mood. Or lightning struck my house (believe it or not, that has happened 3 times!) or there is some strange, possibly rabid animal hanging out in my backyard (that too, has happened). The possibilities are endless as far as scheduling screw-ups go. My iPod, with the nifty app, “Lifetopix”, manages my life for me. At least unless I forget to tell it to do so, which I have been known to do. Sometimes I think my head is just too full, so it’s starts purging things I need to make room for other things I need. Thank God for calendars, whiteboards and computers. Between the 3 of them, I manage to remember (or at least remember to remind myself to remember) most things. But schedules? That is really hard for me.
So anyway, I’ve never been secretive or shy about saying that motherhood is especially hard for me. Too often, I find so many flaws in my parenting, and get to worrying that I am ruining them.
Last night, in a moment of clarity, I tried to talk myself out of that nagging feeling by examining the things I DO instead of all the many things I DON’T.
I DO sneak into my children’s rooms at night and rearrange them or recover them. I wouldn’t be able to sleep if I didn’t.
I DO advocate fiercely for my children’s education, work closely with teachers and pay attention to what my child is learning. Because I want them to have all the tools they need to succeed as adults.
I DO attempt to say more positive things than negative to them. Sometimes, I have to try REALLY HARD at that, but I DO it. Because I care how they feel about themselves and I want them to know they are spectacular.
I DO love my children for who they are, teach them, talk to them, touch them and tell them they are loved. Because I want them to have confidence and I want them to know how much these things do matter.
I DO encourage them to be who they are, to learn what they want to, to take risks and exercise caution, to have character and values. Because character is important and balance is the key to happiness (I think).
I DO lead by example when it comes to compassion, empathy and problem solving. Because I know they will follow me, and my example, be it a good example or a poor one.
And knowing all that I do (and all that I don’t), I’ve concluded that I may be a bad parent much of the time, but I am a good mother. I do think about everything I do, recognize and attempt to fix the things I’d like to do better and even pat myself on the back for the things I think I am doing right. But I think parenting and being a mother really are two different things.
Motherhood, it kind of comes naturally. It’s the gut instinct that makes you check on the kids before you close your eyes. The fierce protectiveness that rises in your throat, in your chest, when your child is being mistreated. The inability to leave your children alone in a car on a hot day (or even a cold one) for fear that they may be cold or hot and unable to do something about it. It’s instinctual, led by feelings and emotions. It’s not really describable, because it’s internal.
Parenting, is learned I think. I don’t have the answers in this department. I’m not spectacular at discipline, or bedtimes. I yell. I don’t serve dinner at the exact same time every night and my kids are more technology dependent than I’d like them to be. They do sometimes act up in public and they don’t typically flinch away from me. Nor do they take my threats of spankings or corner time seriously. They know I’m just pissed, and that I don’t believe in violence so much as I do the power of a mother’s love.
But they know when it’s important. A request from me, a disappointed look, a sigh or tear, will bring them right to my side, striving to make sure I know they get it. That is the power of mothering, not parenting.
In my opinion, being a good mother is teaching my children far more than being good at parenting ever could.
Thanks for listening.
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