Mother’s Day self-reflection reveals cracks

Parenting is definitely not for the faint at heart. Connor and Kate regularly give me a run for my money. The smarter the kid, the greater potential for management problems. But considering the alternative, I’ll take it!

One of the teenage boys we serve where I work thinks the sun rises and sets with me. It should go without saying that particular student is not someone assigned to my direct care and guidance. Otherwise, he would most assuredly think otherwise. To continue with the sun metaphor, the boys with whom I regularly work probably regularly wish I’d just ride my broom out of town before sundown.

“Ms. Smith, I’ll bet you are a wonderful mother!” the delusional teen told me the other day. While I would have liked to believe in my heart of hearts that his comment was heartfelt, my reality censor noted his compliment fell on a day I was wearing something very flattering and had just shown him a couple of yoyo tricks during a time he should have been focusing on his schoolwork.

“Whatever possessed you to say that?” I asked, briefly considering having him checked by the clinic for a high fever or something else that could explain delusional thinking. Another possibility was demonic activity, hence my use of the word “possessed.”

“You’re always so humorous in what you say and do,” he said. “You must be a lot of fun to live with.” I nearly choked on his assessment of what defined my wonderful motherhood. I visualized my own children giving me a Mother’s Day card recognizing those special qualities: Mom, thanks for keeping our household a laugh-a-minute place, whether or not anyone or anything gets bathed, fed, cleaned or paid. It’s a wonderful life with you.”

For laugh’s sake, I decided to test-drive with my own children the pronouncement of the student who doesn’t know me very well or have to live with me. “Somebody thinks I’m the best mother ever,” I announced upon arrival home that evening.

“It wasn’t me!” my daughter shouted in the offended disclaimer tone that typically follows my accusations surrounding some disgraceful deed she had dared hope would go undetected.

“Don’t pin that one on me, either. I would never say that about you!” my son added. In punishment for his honesty, I spontaneously snatched the non-rose-colored glasses off his nose and cleaned them with the steam of my breath and the tail of my shirt, an act he finds repugnant.

“Obviously that ridiculous notion came from someone who doesn’t have to live with you and therefore doesn’t know any better,” he retaliated. Ouch, but honest. Candor is one of the many qualities I admire about my children. They call ‘em as they see ‘em, although I’ve lately noticed Connor has made strides in the diplomacy department. Before he’s finished, he will have my father’s ability to pleasantly give directions to the dock off which he thinks you should jump. On that basis, I subjected him to further questioning. What do you like about how I parent you?

Connor surprised me with his answers. “I like that you share important information with us and don’t talk to us like we’re stupid kids,” he said. “You let us know how and why grown-ups think the way they do so we can understand your decisions better.” He was right. I’m not much for sugar-coating or side-stepping issues. And I never engaged in baby-talk with my kids, even when they were babies.

“I also like that you let us be ourselves and have our own interests, even if they’re kind of weird” he said. “We don’t have to be just like you. And I learned from you that it’s okay if other people do stuff that’s different. When you don’t like what someone does, you need to stop and think about why they are doing it. A lot of times there’s a good reason.”

Wow, I didn’t think he cared or paid that much attention. His sister was more concrete. “I like that you take us to unusual places, cook awesome meals and have interesting friends,” Kate told me. “I like that I get to know the people you work with, you have cool shoes, and you buy me fun clothes.”

Well, at least the word “fun” showed up once. Upon further self-reflection, maybe the mirror’s not as cracked as I had supposed. Happy Mother’s Day to me.