Hi Strangers! It’s been a long time, I know. I’m sorry about that. As much as I love this blog and all the support from everyone who reads it, I have a new baby with whom I’ve been spending a lot of time. Yes, I finally did it: I’m writing a novel. I hope someday you will all get to read it. I really hope that some of you will enjoy reading it even half as much as I have been enjoying writing it. I have a lot of dreams for this little book, but these dreams seem like a far off place that maybe I will get to travel to someday. So for now, I just write and dream.
But I did have to dust off the old blog because there is question that has been plaguing me, and I thought that it might be a question you have had too. So, as I like to do when I have a question that needs answering or a wonder that needs wondering, I decided to write about it with the hopes that maybe we can all figure it out together. So here goes…
What kind of mom am I?
It’s something I have definitely thought about it in the past, especially when I was a brand-spanking-new mom. Now as a wizened – although not wise – mother of two, I thought that I had pretty much come to terms with who I am. But lately, this old question has once again reared its ugly, insecure head.
See, I know what kind of mom I am not.
Despite my deepest wishes, I am not Crafty Mama. Crafty Mama subscribes to parenting magazines and frequents Pinterest to discover how to make awesomely adorable little crafts out of egg cartons and old magazine and used condoms… or whatever. I, personally, am quite pleased with myself when I buy those $3 holiday craft kids from Target and let my kids go to work sticking them together, only to have them fall apart five minutes later. I desperately wish I was Crafty Mama. But Crafty Mama, I am not.
I am not Chefy Mama either. Chefy Mama straps matching aprons on herself and her children and bakes delicious cookies from scratch, teaching her children how to clarify butter (that’s a thing, right?) with flour on their noses and smiles on all of their faces. Chefy Mama makes her own baby food, and macaroni and cheese from scratch, and then bakes gluten-free, applesauce-sweetened muffins for dessert. I am a mama who make macaroni from a box and cakes from a mix and gets semi-annoyed at all the mess. I wish I was Chefy Mama, but I am not.
I really wish I was Cultured Mama. Cultured Mama takes her children to modern art museums and classical concerts, and only lets them watch TV in French and discusses world news with her three-year-old over a perfect prepared quiche. I am a mama who takes my kids to museums when I find a Groupon, and who occasionally turns on classical music when I remember, because I read somewhere that it’s supposed to be good for them. I am not definitely not Cultured Mama. I wish I was.
I’m also not Cool As a Cucumber Mama, who let’s her kids explore the world without hovering. Cool As A Cucumber Mama lets her kids eat food off the floor and run around with runny noses and climb to the top of the monkey bars. Cool As A Cucumber Mama knows that germs and dirty faces won’t kill her children, and most importantly, she doesn’t care what people think. I am a mama who has eased up this second time around, but who is still terrified of what her kids will do when she is not watching, and even more scared of what people will think of her parenting skills if she is not watching. I wish I was Cool As A Cucumber Mama because life would be so much effing easier. But alas, I am not.
So, like I said, I know what kind of parent I am not. I have even come to accept this about myself. But on the long, dark days when my kids are annoying me and I have no patience and I am almost too tired to microwave a TV dinner, the thought that keeps buzzing around my head is: If I am none of these kinds of moms… then exactly what kind of mom am I? And if I am NO kind of mom, then maybe that means that I’m not a good mom.
I guess I am the kind of mom who just muddles through and is happy that everyone makes it out alive. I am the kind of mom who loves her kids fiercely but is terrified that love is just not enough. I’m a mom who is convinced that her kids deserve more: they deserve freshly baked cookies and interesting crafts and a mom who isn’t afraid of anything at all.
But then there are good days. Days when I sit around the table with my kids laughing and eating freshly baked cornbread. Cornbread that came from a box, but that I made with my daughter at my side and my son on hip. Cornbread that we stirred together with my big hand over their little ones, and when I let my daughter crack the egg and she got shells in the batter, instead of getting even a little mad, I just fished them out and smiled at her and said that I like my cornbread crunchy anyway. On those good days I am able to convince myself that maybe I’m not Chefy Mama, but perhaps I’m not doing so badly after all. On those days I think that maybe I am not Cultured Mama or Crafty Mama or anything close to Perfect Mama, but that’s ok because I am Their Mama. And Their Mama can be someone who teaches them that they don’t have to be perfect to be good. That they may never fit into the mold of what they or anyone else thinks that they should be, but that they are still exactly who they should be. Maybe Their Mama can show them that great love and good intentions are enough.
Maybe, just maybe, great love and good intentions really are enough. Maybe.