Some Ugly Truths about Motherhood

Okay, here's the part where I get confessional. I'll give you the back story to my confessions (bless me readers; I have sinned. It's been about four years since my last confession). I'm sitting here removed from my children, alone in our very air-conditioned bedroom. My husband is downstairs dealing with the things to deal. I'm left here to sort out my thoughts and air my dirty laundry publicly. Here are some things I'm not proud of:

1. I get jealous and resentful of my children because their childhood is easier than mine. No, I didn't have some sort of Frank McCourt-drunken-dad-ambivalent-mom childhood. I did come from a working-class family, though. Prior to about fifth grade, most of my clothing was third or fourth hand, such that I recall wearing (gasp) bellbottoms in straight-legged 1982.

The Prince and Princess don't have that. They have a posse of folks who adore them and shower them with gifts. Whereas I went out to eat with my family about once every two or three months as a kid, my children do this about once or twice A WEEK. My darling, overly picky daughter was just pouting because she had to eat the disgusting, leftover Mom's-homemade pizza, while her brother had a piece of Pizza Hut pepperoni leftover from a trip there with their dad yesterday. "It's not FAIR, "she complained. Yeah, well, they didn't have bread machines back in the 1970's or 1980's. So I got Mom's homemade pizza about once a year.

I feel like some disgruntled old geezer in complaining about this. Part of me gets mad because I don't think they understand the value of the things they have. But some petty little part of me feels like the kid who wasn't chosen for the kickball game. It's not fair! How come I didn't get to have Pizza Hut once a week when I was a kid, huh? Maybe I will make them eat my most despied childhood food, the torturous ham and green beans, to exact my revenge upon them. As long as I don't have to eat it, too.

2. I secretly fear that I am screwing these children up and that they will be ruined forever and not be functioning adults. If I make the mistake of comparing my parenting to other parents around me, nearly everyone else seems to do a better job. My parents, especially my mom, were much more organized than I am. The mommies at the pool and the mall are not only thinner, prettier, blonder, and wealthier; they also seem to be such loving, patient sweet women that I feel like Roseanne Barr next to them (loud, loutish, working-class, fat, allowing my children to eat Cheetos). I am not an overly saccharine person. I also resent putting the children to bed and having to read to them. So maybe the kids will grow up to hate reading and with it school. I know that the reading part, at least, is craziness. Lily lives to read. But I can't control the crazy train when it leaves the station house; it just runs ninety miles an hour downhill on a mountain. My thoughts are not always rational, in other words.

3. This is hard to admit, but sometimes I get disappointed that the children were not made to order to my specs. Yes, it's true. I want things the way I want them. This means that from time to time I want my children to perform per my expectations, and they don't. I am very musical. I sing and I was a pretty good clarinet player back in high school. My husband is musical. He is an ex-piano teacher and a keyboardist in a local band. I expect my children to love music. Our parish is recruiting heavily for the children's choir. I know better than to force the issue. Lily wants no part of it. "I can't read music," she tells me. "Daddy could teach you. I know how, but I'm pretty sure you don't want me to try to teach you." As we were leaving today the Deacon of our church said, "Where are you going? Deacon needs you children to help with the choir." The little boy said, "No." The little girl just hung her head and pouted. I know in my heart of hearts that they would make a contribution to the choir. But I also know that they can't be forced.

4. I remember reading some stupid poem in Dear Abby, long before I had kids, to the effect of "dust bunnies, you'll just have to wait; my dear children will only be children for a little while." I hate that sentiment. I can't live in a nasty looking house. And I'm super squeezed for time. But I've kept this stupid poem in my mind for twenty-something years, so I end up either a) cleaning and feeling guilty because I'm not spending time with my kids or b) feeling resentful because my house looks gross and I'm stuck playing Monopoly or some matching game.

What does this all add up to? I'm always looking for a tidy ending, just like some After School Special of my youth. I'm confident there isn't one. Logically, I know that I am human and that parenting is hard. My parenting style isn't like other people's. I won't ever be perfect. There's lots I do wrong. Here are three things I've done right in the past month:

1. I introduced my children to the excellent Gertrude Warner story The Boxcar Children. It felt so good to get them hooked on a story I had loved as a child.

2. I took them both to Coney Island before the summer ended, and we had one of my happiest ever motherhood memories together.

3. I put a note in my daughter's lunch box on the first day of school, just like they tell you today in the women's magazines. She thought it was kind of weird, but she liked it ultimately.

I guess in the end, I just fumble around and try to do my best, confident in the knowledge that I'm about 65% percent succesful on a good day. Then I take a bath and go to bed. Good night, everyone. Thanks for being here.