On Parenting

I have always been a quiet, obedient child -- at least, I thought I was.  Except on one or two occasion when I put Mom over the edge and she would prophetically say: "You are doing this to me now...wait 'til you have your own children.  You will see..." and then her voice would ominously trail off into the distance.

Well, my Mom is approaching her late 70's and she must be secretly having a blast at my expense.  Sigh...raising children is NO joke! Whew!  It's akin to getting on the "Stair Master" at the gym and putting the machine on interval training -- the 30 minutes of excruciating ups and downs, easy and hard steps replicated into a lifetime experience of just that -- times the number of kids you bore into this world.

I often sit and wonder how my Mom did it with seven -- yes, count it SEVEN kids -- plus juggle a full time job and husband.  Of late, I find myself sighing a lot or when I really can't take anymore, I find myself engaged in planning the perfect get away vacation:  Hawaii, Istanbul, Dubai, Australia....anywhere but here.  Mostly, I hide in the bathroom or my walk-in closet; shutting the door and sitting on the floor and relishing the dark and quiet.

Sometimes, I would tell my children that I no longer answer to the name of "Mom" and that I had changed my name and persona to something else...you know, like those people that assume a new identity under a police agency protective program.

But my kids are pretty adept at finding me out.  I am the forever lost and found and can-you-fix this or that department of our household...even if the thing searched for is right under their very noses..."Ah but Mom, you know where everything is..."

I also happen to be the broken record that amplifies the same request, command, demand and finally ULTIMATUM for things conveniently not done -- like the monstrous collection of smelly clothes in my son's bedroom, or my daughter's trail of discarded garments, as if she was a snake who constantly shedded old skin. " Whaaat are THESE THINGS?"

I would flail my arms around like a crazed person, wondering why on earth I was the only one NOT BOTHERED by MESS.  How did my Mom train her seven children to pick up after themselves?  I remember our home being immaculately clean, with not a piece of furniture or item out of place...otherwise, the venom of my Mom would unleash -- like a dragon spitting fire.  Her words, her looks were so deadly -- to this day I remember and stand in attention.

She trained us well...I must say; which brings the conversation back to me.  "Am I doing something wrong?" I would lament to my husband -- who was quick to point out that we have good kids, GREAT kid as a matter of fact...he would tap me on the shoulder and move on to his next scheduled appointment or meeting....sigh!  This would go on until as if woken from a catatonic sleep, my husband would one day realize and notice the same disorder, the same smells and THE SAME MESS!  He would bellow like Hurricane Katrina and then...

Like an aftermath, the kids would get down, scoop up their clothes, fold them, vacuum, sweep and wash dishes – down to the pots, even. No kidding, right?  Like trained military personnel on basic training they accomplish their chores – just like that! Hmmmm..."Perhaps, I should go to your appointments and meetings and you stay home..." I offered to the father of my children.