I have spent many years working towards being a good mother. I’m not going to try to define what that means because it’s certainly different for everyone, but in my own head, I think I’ve got it worked out. It’s somewhere between “June Cleaver” and “no one’s called CPS yet.”
I know that I often fall short of the goals I set. I mean, there’s the yelling, which no one loves, and the (empty) threats, which, I believe, are under-appreciated creative masterpieces of literary genius. I’ve even purchased a sign from my endlessly talented and super crafty cousin that reads, “Put away your laundry or I’ll punch you in the face. Love, Mom.”
I feel like it properly conveys my expectations, while also clearly defining my affection. A definite mothering win.
OK, so maybe that’s a little harsh. But honestly, I spent two hours folding their damn clothes the other night and there was still three loads to go. Amazingly, when I break out nine loads of clean, unfolded, laundry, not one person in the house seems to need me for anything. In fact, they all disappear like cockroaches when the lights get turned on.
But at the end of the day, I like to think I’m doing all right with the whole mom thing. My kids are good people who almost always say please and thank you and have never once been arrested. They talk to me every day. On purpose. They have good friends whom I don’t feel the need to frisk when they come to our house. And even though they’re probably going to hell for leaving wet towels on the floor, I still love them.
Whilst I travel along the parenting path, making decisions and then second-guessing those decisions, I am often comforted by the warm, strong presence of my husband, walking beside me, hand in hand. But then other times, I find that he’s wriggled free of my grip and has fallen behind. Because he needed both hands – and some prep time — to shoot spitballs at our children.
Just recently, my parents and I were trying to give my husband directions to a place he had never driven. As we went back and forth, discussing his options and making suggestions for the best course, including the suggestion that he let our teenaged son co-pilot, he stopped us.
“For God’s sake, I can get there by myself. I am a 43-year-old adult man.”
To which our sweet, kind and angelic daughter replied, “Yeah, on paper.”
It’s not a secret that my husband is a funny guy. He was the class clown, the jokester that everyone counted on for a good laugh. That can be a difficult role from which to break free. For some it’s tougher than for others.
I’ve made it clear that his relationship with our son is best defined as “frat brothers with high intelligence and low senses of self-preservation.”
The relationship with our daughter is a little harder to categorize. I’m going to say it’s closest to her being his “dismayed and/or flabbergasted older sister.”
From an early age, she stepped in and admonished him for bad behavior. Once when she was about five, while playing Barbie together, I overheard her chatting away to her father.
“Daddy, it’s Ken’s birthday. What does Ken want for his birthday?”
“A penis.”
(Sighing deeply) “Daddy, he’s designed for children ages 3+. He’s not supposed to have a penis.”
More recently, I was yelling to my family from the bathroom after I finished showering. I had experienced a slight mishap while shaving and was bleeding from both Achilles. To avoid a string of bloody footsteps leading to the first aid kit, I was hoping one of my loved ones could rustle up a few band-aids for me.
After several minutes of no response, I fashioned a makeshift bandage and stormed out of the bathroom to find that my pleas for help went unanswered because my husband was galloping through the house — pretending to be on horseback — while my son followed, clacking together two halves of a coconut.
My bewildered daughter was filming the scene (I learned that this was commanded by her father). As I came upon this freak show, she was shouting, “I did not sign up for this!”
There is a reason that my mother’s ring has a stone for my son, my daughter, and also, my husband. I even had his name engraved on it. Actually, he’s the one who placed the order. He’s completely comfortable with his role.
Really, it’s amazing I haven’t been institutionalized. Though, there are times I would welcome the break. Instead, I’m thinking about building my own coffin. There are a couple of benefits to this. First, if I drop dead, then I’ve already pre-planned and am ahead of the game. Second, the people who are driving me to the brink of insanity will think that either I’ve finally gone over the edge or, maybe it’s for one of them. And last, but not least, if nothing else, it will give me a place to hide.
I found these plans from Northwoods Casket Company. It looks pretty straightforward and they even suggest using reclaimed wood.
Functional AND hip. I’m in.
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Laurie Nigro, is the mother of two biological children and one husband. She also takes care of a menagerie of animals that leave throw-up around for her to step in in the middle of the night. Laurie’s passionate about frugal, natural living, which is a nice way of saying she’s a kombucha-brewing, incense-burning, foodie freak who tries really hard not to spend money on crap made by child laborers. You can hear her rant about her muse (aka husband) and other things that have no bearing on your life, in this space each Sunday.
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