Light Refreshments Served

I just got back from Parent-Teacher Conferences, which is always a treat.  I know they call them SEP’s or SEOP’s, but I’m old school and can’t help calling them Parent-Teacher Conferences because that’s what they are.  If you call them anything else, it confuses the old people.  

“S-E-WHAT?”  

Student. . .Evalu. . . You know, where the parents meet with the teacher?  

You mean Parent-Teacher Conferences?  

Yeah.  Uh hum.  Pretty much.

Oh, the complication of our modern age! When I went to Owen’s conference today, he showed us his report on wolves on the teacher’s laptop in powerpoint presentation–swirly words magically appearing and scanned art and it almost made me want to read more about wolves.  Just kidding!  It’s still the same old information about types of wolves, how much they weigh, etc.  Nothing about “wolves of the future,” or anything to rival the technology it was presented on.  Whatever.  He also wrote a persuasion essay (on boring, regular wide-ruled archaic paper) about how I won’t buy him the book he wants at the book fair.  (If you’re Santa, it’s the overpriced one that reveals video game secrets.)  Nothing spices up a Parent-Teacher Conference like avoiding the awkward essay criticizing your parenting skills!

Phoebe showed me her writing journal and I was so excited that there was something about ME in it!  After years of reading they boys’ journal entries about Pokemon, Mario Brothers, Kirby, holidays, birthday parties, and candy, it was refreshing to finally make the cut into the grade school publication world.  She actually drew three different pictures of “Phoebe and Mom” and in each entry, I have a different color of hair.  Dark, yellow and brown, and yellow, which is funny because I have actually had all three of those hair colors in the past few months.  I’m glad she noticed and, more importantly, that I’m influencing her education in a meaningful way.

Miles has been working on remembering to hand things in and it’s paying off, thank goodness, or I might have to start pinning his assignments to his shirt.  Or continue doing that.  I admit nothing.  We’ve made some new goals that involve cleaning out his desk.  He may have been caught reading Popular Science once or twice when he was supposed to be listening.  I was just relieved to know that it’s not just me!

Hugh didn’t have a Parent Teacher conference, but I think it’s time he had a formal evaluation, you know, now that I’m all caught up in it.  I asked Hugh what comes after Halloween and he said “seven.”  I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up and he said “a monster.”  Interpret that how you will.

I want to remind everyone to get out and vote (aside:  why does it bother me so much when a celebrity tells me to vote, but not when anyone else does?  Leonardo DiCaprio, stop telling me to vote by trying to be ironic by telling me not to vote.  It bugs me.)  I think it’s vital to be an informed voter from NPR to Rush to local to national, Fox to CNN.  Give ‘em all a chance.  That’s all I’m going to say about that.  For now.

I try to be informed on a lot of issues, but it’s hard because I’m always trying to read for intent.  Also, some people just naturally offer up more information than other people, and some are more convincing than others.  For example, when I ask my Miles and Owen  ”How was school?”  I get a cliche “fine,” or “good” and nothing else.  Maybe they forget or they don’t care, but I’m more likely to believe that they don’t want to expend the energy it takes to tell me.  Phoebe, however, gives me the most detailed description of conversations she’s had, what her friends are like, what they’re wearing, who plays with who at recess and what they did in class, in the correct sequence of events, and ends with a preview of the next day’s events.  It’s delightful.  With her, I feel that I’m an informed parent.  With the boys, I feel like I’m a detective trying to piece together their day, like how they can complete homework, but just not hand it in.  Boys are mysterious.

Phoebe, in her quest to give us a feel for her emotional output throughout the day, has shared a little about a boy in her class:  a naughty boy.  It seems that “Dustin” (name has been changed, of course) from the get-go has not followed the rules and this has both perplexed and delighted Phoebe, though she would never admit it.  On the first day of school, Phoebe reported that Dustin had said a bad word.  She was flabbergasted!  When pressed to reveal the word, she whispered, “He said. . . I. . . hate. . . school!” and “School . . . sucks!”  She protested that she could not believe that he would say that, but I saw her try to hold back a smile.  She was intrigued.  So every few days we get a “Dustin Report.”  He’s been sent to the principal’s office twice, he’s had to come in from recess, he’s hit, he’s fought, and he’s had his good days, too (and when Phoebe reports, her voice is a little crestfallen like, well, nothing important happened today), and each and every report comes from an informative, passionate, rule-abiding little girl who is obviously fascinated by the “bad boy,” and, yes, I see the writing on the wall.

So, no matter how this election turns out I know two things:  I’m going to hear and read all about it, good and bad, and sometimes it will perplex me, and sometimes it will secretly delight me.

Moms, because we’re so tired, have slacked off in specifically naming what’s so great about being a mom.  Because we’ve been sleep deprived for years at a time, like an experimental lab rat, we can be unpredictable.  Our lack of deep, uninterrupted, consistent REM hosting sleep changes our DNA.  I don’t have any specific scientific research or “studies” to back this up or “prove” this, just my gut instinct.  My gut also told me to eat pineapple and root beer when I was pregnant and suggested I might like blue eyeshadow and making a Christmas candy window for the local arts council (both turned out to be very, very bad ideas and slightly, if not completely, embarrassing), so there’s. . . that. 

My point is that maybe we don’t express the joy in motherhood in specific enough ways.  We give blanket expressions of love like this:

1.  My kids are so cute and peaceful when they’re sleeping– they look like angels!

2.  It’s the toughest job in the world, but it’s so worth it! (or is that the Marines?  The toughest job you’ll ever love?  I can’t remember because I don’t get enough sleep.)

3.  I may not get paid, but I’m rewarded with hugs and kisses!

4.  I wouldn’t trade being a mother for the world!

5.  My job is never dull!  I’m a cook, a chauffeur, a cleaning lady, a math tutor, a cheerleader, a counselor, an entertainer, a (fill in blank), etc etc etc.

These are nice, wonderful sentiments, but we’ve all said them too often that they’ve lost their impact.  What I like about being a mother may be ordinary, but it might not.  I can’t judge (because I’m so tired).  If we are more specific, maybe we can stop being called “Soccer Moms” and -gasp- “Hockey Moms,” and get new, more original, individual labels. Isn’t that a fun dream? (Can I just have a nap?)  

These are specific, often overlooked reasons why being a mom is great :

1.  Kids get excited about events, holidays, and parties and it’s contagious.  My son Owen celebrated Red Ribbon Week (”Stay Smart, Don’t Start”) by dressing “tip to toe” in red.  He insisted I wash his red long and short-sleeved shirts so he could wear red every single day this week.  I forgot to throw them into the dryer the night before the “Wear all red” day, and instead of a meltdown he was determined to find other red clothing which, miraculously, he did.  He wore a red stocking cap, red shirt, red shorts (and reminded me that he’ll need some red pants for next year.   I don’t think a good mom would buy her son red pants, but that may just be me.), and they were all different shades of red, but he didn’t care.  When Miles reminded him that hats are not allowed in school, Owen insisted “They said ‘tip to toe!’ TIP TO TOE!”  It was really cute.  He’s so earnest.  It’s fun to see kids dressed tip to toe in red being earnest.  Who knew?

2.  Being a mom is a great excuse.  You can buy treats, make treats, have treats on hand “for the kids.”  No one will question your pantry stocked with Cocoa-Puffs.  You can get out of engagements with one phrase:  I can’t find a babysitter. (This phrase, however, is usually true.  I’m just trying to fill that glass up half full, people.) You can also get out of boring meetings.

3.  Being a mom is great because they’re your kids.  Even if you didn’t like kids or babysitting before, your kids are different.  Your kids are the smartest/funniest/most original/cutest/kindest in the universe and you look good by association.  Even if they’re rotten, you know, deep down, they’re the best kids ever and you convince yourself you had something to do with it.

4.  Kids are a great ice breaker.  Uncomfortable meeting someone new?  Don’t know what to say during a lull in a conversation?  Not sure how to reply when someone asks you “How are things?  What’s new?”  Talking about your kids is the answer in all these cases.  It’s also a great way to steer away the conversation when you’re with someone with whom you disagree with on topics such as politics, religion, or multi-level marketing “opportunities,” and you don’t know how to disarm them or just get them to stop talking.  

5.  Kids are a good hobby because they strip you of pride and make you seem more patient than you really are.  You aren’t cool, and your kids remind you of that. You might get a big head if you weren’t constantly told “you talk to me too much” or “your bum’s too big to sit on that chair!”  (hypothetically speaking, of course) The more kids you have, the more patient you seem to strangers, when the exact opposite is probably true.  It’s just a funny assumption we all make, and I’m okay with it.

Now I’m going to go make dinner, clean it up,  and then finish some laundry!  I’ll take a “break” later by going to the grocery store with 3, instead of 5 kids!  Just kidding.  I’m totally staying home to finish the laundry.

Moms complain about the same things over and over that they become white noise falling on deaf ears (deaf ears eating fruit snacks and asking for more juice).  For example, we always complain about (and with good reason–these are big things, just common):

1.  Being tired.  Not getting enough sleep.  Getting up a million times in the night.  Tired.  Tired.  Tired.

2.  Being busy.  Driving everyone here and there and staying up late (there’s that tired thing again) to get things done.  Laundry’s never done.  Food is always being made, eaten, cleaned up after, planned, shopped for, etc.

3.  Being under appreciated.  I cook a great meal, no one eats it.  I clean the house, no one says thank you, etc.

4.  Our jeans.  I wear mom jeans because they hide my baby pouch and hold everything in.  So, go ahead, make fun of me.  Make a sketch about it on Saturday Night Live, sing a song about it.  Whatever.  I paid a price for each of my beautiful children (stretched, marbled skin, for starters, just so we’re clear) and you can go ahead and make fun of me (insert righteous indignation).

5.  Not being heard.  I talk and talk and my son doesn’t remember a thing I say.  I must have told him a thousand times. . . 

There are other, worthy complaints we don’t mention as often that need some attention.  I think we need a little public relations assistance so that, while we’re mixing things up, we’ll get a little more focused attention.  Every business or product wants to know how to reach the “Soccer Mom,” right?  No more generic “Thanks for all you do, Mom!” cards on Mother’s Day.  I think we should begin by complaining about specifics like this:

1.  Going to the grocery store or the bank without children, however freeing, is not “a break.”  A break is going on a vacation, having someone bring us food we did not prepare, or staring at the wall without interruption.  Calling it a break is like calling a tv commercial a “story.”

2. Tying little shoes and stuffing chubby toddler feet into little shoes is maddening.  It requires great skill, determination, and patience all coming together in the same precise moment.

3. Determining which tv shows, books, and music you will or will not introduce your children to is an art form extending way beyond what is age appropriate and moral.  SO MANY OTHER factors are involved.

4.  When you’re restraining your small child on your lap and they do that thing where they arch back, stiffen their body, and crack the back of their head into your face really, really hurts.  

5.  Going from baby books to scrapbooking to blogging in one generation, essentially chronically our children’s lives from year to year, then month to month, then to week by week, to daily, is a difficult, unrealistic adjustment.  Like an addict going from gateway drugs to illegal ones because they cannot get enough, we all need a little intervention.  (Hey kids!  Are you reading this in the future?  Remember, I took you to the park today!  It was really fun and I pushed you on the swing for hours and hours!)

I’m not a very good soccer mom.  I do have a really awesome dented mini van and I recently bought a couple of those fold-up outdoor, camping, sports-watching chairs, but I’m not really good at being that “sports enthusiast” my son needs.  Aren’t I a big person for admitting that?  It counts for something, right?   Owen (8) is the odd man out, I’m afraid, in our family because he loves sporty things.  Like watching sports and playing sports and baseball hats and Gatorade.  I have a really soft spot in my heart for him not only because he’s my son, of course, but because he’s so sweet and nurturing and undemanding.  He just happens to loves sports, and it’s really not that much to ask (I remind myself).

Topher was (is?) the odd man out in his family.  He is the only one of his five brothers who doesn’t like sports.  He was the only one (of 9 kids) who was ecstatic when the family got a baby grand piano for Christmas, while the other brothers were wishing (expecting) four-wheelers.  He’s the one who took piano lessons and read Shakespeare plays in the summer when his brothers were “shooting hoops,” or “going hunting” (that’s a sport, right?)  It’s not like they didn’t play together.  Topher played along when his big brother lined up the neighborhood kids in order to jump over them with his motocycle, because he needed someone he was related to to be on the very end, you know, just in case.  What’s that?  The family’s all going fishing?  Well, Topher can’t go anyway.  He’s rehearsing a play.  But please don’t send me emails fretting about his masculinity.  Believe me:  He’s ALL MAN.

Side note:  Have you noticed I refer to all things athletic as “sports.”  I say it with the same all-inclusive smug generalization as others use the term “drama.”  ”Oh, What does Topher do?  Is he still teaching DRAMA?”  No, DRAMA is not the same as acting, or directing, but it’s close enough, so,  whatever.  I’m sure you’d ask the BYU Basketball coach (I don’t even know his name–doesn’t that illustrate enough?!) if he’s still “teaching sports?”  Yes, I know you so well.

Owen gets those Parks and Recreation Forms in the mail or at school advertising the next sport offering and he receives them like a golden ticket.  He pleads for me to sign him up, and I do.

Owen played baseball last year, and when he made his first home run I was so excited because something actually happened. I’m usually so bored because I don’t understand the game and I don’t know what’s going on, and most of the kids don’t, either, in my defense.  So he made a homerun and in my excitement I forgot what you’re supposed to yell (I’m not, ironically, a yeller at sporting events.  When parents are yelling at their kids during a game it makes me really uncomfortable.  I think it’s because I’m worried they’ll get distracted or something.  You don’t yell at movies, tv, plays, or while reading a book.) So I yelled, “YEAH OWEN!  WAY TO MAKE A GOAL!. . no, that isn’t  right. . . a, it’s not a basket, it’s. . . WAY TO GO!”  A nice, older mother tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Owen’s really good!  And he’s a sweetheart.  Oh, and, it’s called a run.”  I must remember to write these things down:  bring water bottle, bring chair or blanket (it’s longer than you think!), snacks, and it’s call “a run.”

I try to remember how Topher’s mother and father sent him to the expensive piano lessons when he really caught onto it, how they bought that big piano, encouraged him to take summer theater workshops with his sister, and how excited they were for him when he earned a theater scholarship.  They must have seen that his heart wasn’t into pee-wee baseball but, still, it must have been a little weird to see him dressed in silk MC Hammer pants as the King in his high school production of The King and I.  I know my mother was a little taken back when she met him for the first time dressed in pink and white striped tights and in pancake make-up.  I try to keep a visual of that moment in my mind when I sign Owen up for wrestling, because if you’ve ever walked into a wrestling room, you know it’s a hot, misty sauna of warm armpit sweat.

Scene: My sister, Gina, was in the kitchen, explaining to her 5 year-old, Sheridan, that she couldn’t have any chocolate until she had eaten some dinner.  As soon as her on-going, lecture-loving, motherly discussion had ended, my dad, “the grandpa,” immediately hands Sheridan a piece of chocolate.  He is obviously pleased with himself.

Shortly after witnessing this seemingly innocent, common exchange, I had three thoughts, simultaneously:

1.  In that moment my father was thinking of all the times he tried to get Gina (or me, or any of his kids) to do something, and we wouldn’t, or we’d fight him on it, and this is his little payback to us.  He has the last laugh.

2.  This moment might also represent some fight against “the system.”  Our whole lives, people are telling us what to do.  Being defiant to societal expectations (chocolate before dinner), gives us a sense of power and a heightened sense of individual identity.  A small victory representative of a larger win.

3.  Sheridan is really cute, and her powers of persuasion were too much for any one person to deny.

The school schedule is underway, and the mismatched pieces of my daily routine are finally fitting together.  Slowly.  I’m not exercising, waking up earlier than the kids, or anything exemplary like that, I’m just holding it together and I’m excited about that.  The school schedule, versus the summer schedule, creates some sort of magical effect on the kids that gets them to do what I want them to do when I want them to do it.  The Summer is all about their activities.  The School Year is still all about them, but I have the illusion of control.  Who said parenting isn’t about smoke and mirrors?

Still, when I dropped off Phoebe at kindergarten for her first day of school, I had a little lump in my throat.  This is a big deal for me.  I had to practically run out of the school before I burst into tears (only made it barely out the door) when I dropped off Miles, and then with Owen, I made it home and cried in the quiet of my own home, which is more socially responsible.  So when I walked to the car with three-year-old Hugh and baby Margaret, Hugh just looked at me and said, matter-of-factly, “Well, you’ve only got ONE KID now.  And a baby.”  As if he was totally unimpressed, or commenting on the weather.  The little lump in my throat didn’t feel like a big deal to me this time around, mainly because I now realize that kindergarten lasts as long as changing a couple of diapers and barely two loads of laundry.  What, you’re home already?

Of course, the amount of tears shed by a mother on her child’s big day isn’t a contest to prove the amount of love that mother possesses for her child. It’s just a personality thing.  I get that; I’m a crier.  I came to terms with that a long time ago.  I just prefer, now, to do my crying alone when I think about how fast they grow up.  Some days I cry because I want them to stay this age forever.  Sometimes I cry because I think they’ll stay this age forever.

As I’ve said before, this isn’t my first rodeo, you know?  Mothering as an emotionally charged mother has its own special bag of goodies.  But today I discovered that only a week and a half into this new school year, Hugh and the baby and I have our little routine now, and it’s pretty great.  Now it’s their turn.  Phoebe went off to school and Hugh looked at me and said, “Let’s go to the store!”  I needed some supplies (because it’s a full-time job to keep this house stocked with diapers, toilet paper, soaps, etc, but that’s a long, boring post for another day), so off we went.  Shopping with two kids instead of five?  What a treat!  (That sounds sad, I know, but it’s all about my little victories).  At Target Hugh and I shared some nachos.  He likes the ones without any cheese sauce, I like the ones drenched in it.  How perfect! It was a special moment of clarity for me.  I always dread that the phase of life I’m in will end, and I don’t want it to, but then the next phase is good, too and brings unexpected delights (nachos).  Two things I love about that moment:  Hugh likes to go shopping, and I had my special mothering moment due, in large part, to my unnatural love of artificial cheese flavoring.

I get really excited about back to school shopping, but I never learn.  I’m always genuinely bewildered that they boys aren’t as excited about picking out new clothes to wear.  A couple of days ago, completely seriously, I said, ”Hey guys!  I have a fun idea!  Let’s go through all your clothes and see what still fits and make a list of what you need and then go and get some back to school clothes!!!  Wouldn’t that be fun!?”  

Miles, my 10 year-old said, dryly,  ”Uh, Mom, I think your idea of fun and MY idea of fun are completely different.”  Owen, my 8 year-old and Miles’ cohort in all things, nodded in agreement.  

After the list was made, we went out in a forcible search of a few items.  The boys wanted this:

Which caused me to wince.  I tried to talk them into this:

But they made it clear that money spent on these shirts would be money crumpled in the back of their drawers until that money no longer fit.  So I used my expert skills of logic and reason.  I gave them the “dress for success” lecture.  I gave them the “girls like a well-dressed man” lecture (that argument actually backfired.)  I gave them the “well, tough–it’s my money” lecture (my personal favorite), and ended on the “compromise” lecture.  They don’t want “collared shirts” and I don’t want “tacky video game tee shirts.”  We can agree on tee shirts with “artistically interesting designs.”  

In the end, I’m trying to raise boys with a strong sense of self.  I want them to know who they are and what they like, but I torture myself because I also want them to have good taste.  I freely admit it’s a pride issue, too.  I don’t want other parents (mostly mothers) to see my kid and assume that all they do is play video games, or that they’re lazy and sit on the couch all day drinking soda and eating trans fats.  I don’t really care, but I do a little bit.  

But now my daughter, Phoebe, is starting kindergarten, so it’s a WHOLE NEW GAME.  We went to shopping and instantly agreed on a couple of dresses, sweaters, and shoes to match (”fer cute!”).  It satisfied my shopping for school clothes cravings and let the boys completely off the hook.  There was no plea for a tee shirt with the logo of “Camp Rock” printed all over it, or “Hannah Montana,” who my daughter thinks “is nerdy.”  (I know, how did I get so lucky, right?)  It was simple.  So, for positive reinforcement, she got the “we’ve really stretched our budget shopping here” lecture and ”building your wardrobe” lecture, ending with the ”isn’t this a fun tradition to have” lecture.  The lectures I’ve been waiting five years to give.

The children locked us all out of the house.  I, of course, used our sullen state to bring home the lesson of obedience.  ”You see,” I reasoned, “if you had all just been obedient and gotten into the car when I asked, and not stalled and messed around none of this would have happened!”  I could see it in their eyes–they were thinking if I had just unlocked the door, or put the keys in my pocket, “none of this would have happened.”  Even though I have reason and logic on my side, they have the arrogance of youth, so nobody really wins.

What happened next was like a scene taken from one of my favorite TV programs.  I walked around to the back of my house and kicked the backdoor open.  It was –and I know I overuse this word a lot, but it really applies here–AWESOME.  I knew, instinctively, to kick the door near the handle of the door, not middle or, as many rookie cops mistakenly try, the hinges (ha! silly rookies. . .).  To impress you even more: I was wearing sandals.  I did it in two strong kick.  And it. Felt. Good.  As in, I want to do it again.  Soon.  And I learned it by watching TV.

Have you ever been in the situation when someone says something like “Oh, I never watch TV.”  or “I don’t even OWN a TV. . .” or “I don’t have TIME to watch TV. . .” like it’s an automatic virtue, (or like my friend Eric says, “It’s not like they’re out there curing cancer while you’re watching TV. . .”) and you’re left standing there feeling kind of dumb, like you can’t really defend TV watching, like it’s just an assumed vice like force- feeding baby seals hard liquor, so you say nothing or you say something like “Oh, well, we love PBS!   And the Discovery Channel is really worth it. . .” or “It’s nice to watch Conference. . .and the Olympics!”  Or worst, you jump in and tell them which book you just finished reading like you have to justify yourself, your life, or your use of leisure time.  But what you’re really thinking is “I love to watch TV–it’s relaxing!  It’s entertaining!  There’s so much good stuff on there. . .and, what with my DVR, I’m responsible with it–I save time in fact. . .”  Well,  maybe you don’t go on and on like that, but the sentiment is the same.  After I kicked that door in, I felt I’d never have to fake justify myself again.

To really bring the point home, I had a doctor’s appointment (for “none of your business”) and I met with my new Family Practice Physician.   In the interest of full disclosure, I told him my past history with my pesky tonsils.  All my life I’d been told because I don’t get strep that often, that “they’re fine.”  Now, tv medical dramas (House, ER) have taught me that I need to tell my doctor everything and to be completely honest, which I did.  If I don’t, I could go into sudden cardiac arrest or seize and foam at the mouth while half a dozen machines start beeping, a pack of doctors and nurses rush around me, sticking all sorts of needles into me, yelling at Topher to “Get OUT!” I’m glad I did because it turns out I need to have them taken out.  That means SURGERY, people.

Let this be a lesson to us all.  Watching TV has really helped me out this week.  Never mind Topher had a “hidden key” somewhere he forgot to tell me about.  Never mind I can have my tonsils out “in the next few months or so–when I’m done nursing and Topher’s done with his dissertation. . .”  The details aren’t important, the lesson learned (TV = good) is.

There is a difference between raising boys and raising girls.  It’s a familiar discussion, and although I hate generalizing the complex dance which is parenting (that awkward, prepubescent, uncoordinated dance), there are some undeniable universal truths I have come to realize in raising three boys and two girls.

What have I learned?  (That I have no idea what I’m doing and just when I think I have it figured out I have another child) It’s complicated, but I’ve done a little bit of my own, unscientific research and this is what I came up with today:

Situation #1:  The kids are entertaining themselves while we run errands.  They:

girl:  Walk beside me, stopping to pick up the baby’s toy when I drop it.

boys:  Entertain themselves with a game:  older boy pretends to take off the younger boy’s nose (”Gotchyernose!”).  Younger boy screams (believing he really has his nose) and tackles older boy yelling “Give it BACK!” and both fall to the ground to the delight of onlookers. 

Situation #2:  The kids are fighting.  I stop them and ask them “What’s the problem?!”  The reply:

girl:  Is a lengthy, intricate history of wrong-doings dating back months, and an in-depth personality study of the guilty party, concluding in a tearful “and he said he wasn’t my FRIEND ANYMORE!”

boys:  an apathetic “I dunno.”

Situation #3:  The kids are looking for something to do.  They suggest:

girl:  We make up a play with costumes, scenery, and invite all the neighbors, charge admission and serve treats!

boys:  We go get a Baconator at Wendy’s.  Or a Slurpee.  

(Situation #3 ends in Situation #2 and repeats itself in a never ending cycle of fun.)

The kids are conducting a scientific experiment of their own.  They are simultaneously trying to occupy the same space I exist in on a daily basis.  I can’t determine if its a.  a psychological test of endurance or b.  an Advanced Physics experiment involving time and space.  

When we first got Guitar Hero I secretly thought, “I am going to be so amazing at this it will blow everyone away.” I am pretty good at it. But not that good. Average, really. But I still have savant-like moments where I think I might be the best Guitar Hero player in the world.

I feel the same way about being a mom. Sometimes I think I’m awesome at it! Sometimes I think I’m better than most moms and that makes me feel good. But other times, like when the babysitter inquires about the kids’ bedtime routine and I think, “Try to get Ben to take his pants off and then yell at all the kids until they go to sleep,” but I say, “Jammies, teeth, and stories!” and I realize that I suck. It’s like battling Slash on hard. I’m just not as good as I thought.

Sometimes my kids are so delightful and sweet I can’t help but take credit for them. “Yes. That’s because of me. I rule!” But when they are bad I tend to sympathize with other parents of bad kids and think, “How can I be responsible when my kids spit? They are their own little people with their own accountability. Sigh.” I am proud that my kids can take care of themselves and each other pretty well—especially when I don’t feel like making breakfast and decide to blog all day. But I just read Little Heathens. It’s a memoir of growing up on a farm during the depression. (Because of Little House on the Prairie, I love any and all descriptions of larders.) Reading it made me want to shuck corn with my kids. So I got some and expected them to pitch in and feel quaint. I even brought out icy glasses of Kool-Aid to magnify the camaraderie. You should have seen the fits they threw! It was only 20 minutes of shucking. That was devastating.

I blame parenting books for my schizophrenic mothering. The first one I read was by Dr. Sears. It’s very good and I recommend it, but attachment parenting kicked my butt: Nurse on demand, sleep together, be really nice all the time and intuitive about discipline and avoid red dye. That’s a tall order. I’ve read tons of parenting books since then and have decided to pick and choose what works for me instead of implementing whole parenting philosophies. It’s liberating!

I recently picked up Parents Who Think Too Much: Why We Do It, How to Stop at the library. I did the author proud by not checking it out. I know I should trust my own instincts about being a mom instead of relying on so-called experts, but my instincts are telling me to read parenting books by experts.