Bad Mom

Last Thursday I was driving west on I696... right smack in the middle of rush hour.  The snow was flying and I could barely see out the front windshield.  Traffic was all backed up, like people had never driven in the snow before in their lives.  I was trying to send a text message with my left hand, because my right hand was desperately grabbing at the ankles of my children... who were bored in the car and had started jumping from the back seat into the "way back" and then back again, screaming wildly in Fred voices.  I'm sure it wasn't a result of the cokes and Snickers I bought them as a reward for not being heathens at grandma's.

My temperature was rising.  So NOT a good time for the moron in front of me to slam on his brakes!  I was driving with my knees because my cigarette was close to burning my hand, which also happened to be holding my iPhone.  I had it out the window to flick the butt, when BAM! 

BRAKES.  Kids flying.  Phone flying.  Profanity flying.  Damn.  I miss my phone.  No way was I going to find it in the dirty highway snowbank.  I should have made the kids go back and look. Stupid kids.  If they hadn't have been jumping around back there I wouldn't have lost my phone.  I am going to make them sell all their stuff to buy me a new one

Bad  mom.

I hope most of you realize by now that this was NOT, in fact, me.  Despite the fact that I often question my decisions... I truly believe that I am a good mom.  And chances are good that YOU are probably a good mom, too.  If you are not the woman in the car with the smokes and the texting, that is.  When you think you are a bad mom, compare yourself to her and you will feel better.  THAT's a bad mom, a dangerous mom, not you.

When I had my first child, Asher, I was immersed in the Montessori method.  I worked at a Montessori school, was in Montessori training, and surrounded myself with other Montessori-minded parents.  I was so sure that this was the "right" way to raise my children, that I didn't allow for wiggle room.  If I did anything contrary to what was found in the handbook, I felt horrible.  I doubted my own ability as a parent.

After leaving that environment and meeting more friends with children (friends with plastic toys, high chairs, and play pens), I realized that those moms loved their children just as much as I did.  Their children were, in fact, NOT going to end up serial killers or intellectually stunted or angry because they were allowed to eat Goldfish crackers in their excer-saucer watching Elmo... once in a while.

Now that my children are older, it's not a matter of Goldfish crackers- it's fish oil.  Verses ADhD meds, that is.  It's to video game or not to video game.  It's to allow for argument, or "My word is law."  It's to private, public, or home school.  It's to allow kids to work it out, or step in as mediator.  It's to step up or step back.  It's to Love and Logic, to 1-2-3 Magic, to attach, detach, or make it up as you go.  It's weather or not to allow your kid to quit dance, to try out for the musical, to have a play date with a kid you know isn't a good influence, to eat that piece of cake at ten o'clock, to let your seven year old climb in bed with you in the middle of the night.  It's deciding how to deal with a tantrum, a scream, a refusal to follow directions.  It's deciding if the kids' rooms are their domain, or if we should make them clean.  It's weather or not allowance is good or bad, or if they should be allowed to take their money out of their savings account.  It's deciding if you should spend the money on the name brand boots to boost your daughter's self-image, or let your son buy the cheat codes so he can "keep up" with his friends.

No-one said this was going to be easy.  Now that I have brought my kids home from school, my decisions seem to not only be under a microscope, but also in the tabloids.  I have to somehow prove that I am doing well by my kids.  To me.  To the family.  To them.  To the world.  But how does one measure that kind of success?  You can't tell if a cake is good until it's done baking.  And even then, some of us like chocolate, others vanilla.  Some of us don't think we should be eating cake at all.

With all the articles and conversation around "Battle Hymn of a Tiger Mother," I have been questioning the role of parenting "methods" in the lives of real mothers and fathers.  Are we trying to live up to standards that are unattainable, and therefore setting ourselves up to feel like failures?  When I was growing up, my parents just raised us the way they did because... well, because that's how it was done.  Perhaps it was how their parents raised them.  Or perhaps it came from some instinct.  Perhaps from their place of love.  Wherever their "methods" came from, they didn't question weather or not they were doing it "right."  At least not often, from what I'm told. 

My dad was a busy single father... he didn't have time to read the books.  He was loving but firm.  Encouraging, with high expectations.  Comforting, but not suffocating.  He didn't want to be our friend, or our jailer.  We had everything we needed, and some of the things we wanted.  We had chores, but weren't indentured servants. The most important thing about his parenting "method?"  We knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that we were loved.

As an adult now, I am friends with my parents.  I have a deep understanding of my mom.  I also know that she loved us very much, even though we didn't live with her growing up.  We spent many weekends, holidays, and summer days with her and my step family.  She taught me life lessons that carry me through womanhood, and I wouldn't change anything about our past.  She, as well as my father and the decisions they made, helped form who I am today.  I know that I am loved, unconditionally.

That, my friends, is all we can do.  Love our children the best we know how.  As long as you aren't that woman in the car, (and I sincerely hope you are not), you are probably a good parent.  You don't have to live up to the expectations of the world.  Your success as a parent is not measured by ACT scores, perfect concertos, or invitations to popular birthday parties.  If you love your children the best you know how, you are a good parent.

Last night I was sitting with my son in his bed.  He was having a fitful sleep... due to several factors, including excessive sweets and caffeine at a party combined with late night screen time... and at one point he kind of rolled over and mumbled (he talks in his sleep all the time), "I love you daddy."  My eyes swelled with tears.  If he is saying that he loves his dad while in a state of subconscious thought... well, I don't know, it just seems that much more pure and sincere.

It made me realize that, unless I suddenly become that woman texting and flicking smokes in her car, unless I (for some ungodly reason) begin making dangerously horrible choices, unless my husband goes ballistic,  my kids are going to be fine.  He is a good dad.  I am, in fact, a good mom.  I love my kids the best way I know how.

And as far as I know, no-one has the authority to write a manual on how to love.

Disclaimer:  I'm sure some of you might argue that the mom in the car above was also loving her kids the best way she knew how.  But, if you are a mom doing that, you are a dangerous mom (even if you do love your kids).  Perhaps that's what I mean by "bad."  Making choices that are obviously threatening the lives of your children... that's bad.  If you are letting them eat ice cream and watch videos in the back seat... that's survival.  If you are letting them go nuts while you smoke and text in a snow storm, that's bad.  Just wanted to clarify my position!