In honour of Mother’s Day, I feel it is time to admit to my children the one thing I know to be true about becoming a mother. Brace yourself. Here it is: I have no idea what I am doing.
Is there a support group for that?
You see, after I survived the mothering minefield of infanthood, (where every single household item and food group was a threat to the life of my babies), I then navigated each of them through to the terrible-twos (which brought on a few classic temper tantrums of my own), and led me into the abyss of the tyrannical-threes. With the start of primary school, I foolishly believed things would get easier. Parenthood would make sense. I would get organized. My house would be clean.
It was not to be. My children insisted on growing and the mess did too. Gone are the days of the The Wiggles sound track. Some freak named Lady GaGa, who has forced me to explain lyrics that I am not sure I even want to understand myself, has replaced them. Disney films have been forgotten for tales about star-crossed Vampires. And adorable baby talk is now back talk, with a frightening awareness of schoolyard expletives that come in text-speak. LOL? No. I am not ROFLMAO, but if you talk to me like that again, I will send your “A” to your room. So there.
Hey, look, I am educated. I’m cultured. I’m hip. I have an iPod and a Black Berry. I own skinny jeans (and one day I might wear them), and I have funky coloured hair (purely for premature grey coverage, but whatever). I even have a Facebook page. I’m not going to be the un-cool parent who cuts the crusts off junior’s sandwiches in high school and delivers them to his homeroom in my bathrobe and slippers (that’s a lie, I am totally going to do that). So why don’t I get any respect?
Maybe it’s because it isn’t easy to be my child. I am not a typical Mommy. I know that. I don’t do conventional well. Our home, like our family, is messy and chaotic. Our lives are not structured. I work too much and play too little. I am miserable when I’m on deadline and I have been known to forget to return field trip forms on time. I don’t bake. I hate to cook. I love a good game of Wii Beatles, so long as I am the singer, and believe impromptu adventures beat textbook lessons any day. I am unpredictable, temperamental and even emotional at whim and have been known to kiss my husband boldly in a passionate embrace in the kitchen, right in front of the horrified eyes of our children. Disgusting.
I am far too honest that the world is a scary place and far too trusting that they’ll figure it out. I believe they should be whomever they want to be, and at the same time, I want to shield them from the harsh reality that the world rejects unique souls, until they grow up to be Lady GaGa. I want my children to dream big, but get to bed on time.
I want them to leave me alone but call me when they get there.
Is that so much to ask?
I don’t know much, but I know this: it is an honour to be their mother. And therapy helps. Just sayin’.