Mama Drama

As Mother’s Day approaches, it’s the usual time I psychologically rent a limo so I can take my inevitable guilt trip in style.


Leading up to this day of celebration, stories of the women who gave all they have for their children seem to come out of the woodwork. Mothers who happily go without personal time, adult interaction, hygiene, exercise and even sanity to make time to play with their children. Women who go without any kind of luxury and sometimes even food to ensure their children have the very best. They are women who know their most important job is raising their children. They embrace it and honor it and are fulfilled by it.

I start to wonder if I’m that kind of mom. And then Wally (5) sneaks up to my Diet Coke to steal a sip and I squawk as if he’s robbing an egg from my nest. And I know. I’m not. I never was. And probably will never be.

Instead, I’m the kind of mother who counts the minutes until bedtime and skips the story if I’m too tired. I’m the kind of mother who turns all the field trip forms in late and serves cold cereal for dinner. I’m the kind of mother who uses the TV as a babysitter. I’m the kind of mother who (ouch) yells when I’m at wit’s end. I’m the kind of mother who does not thrive on self sacrifice, but feels lonely and resentful and completely unfulfilled by motherhood. None of these make me proud.

Normally that’s where my story ends. I vow to do better and then spend six months belittling my abilities and wondering why I ever even had children since and what deficient character trait makes me unable to “know” like other moms.

But I’m taking a detour from my traditional trip, determined that Mother’s Day will hold no guilt for me. The pieces of motherhood I resent are a part of, but not the definition of the job. The part of motherhood I love, the part that energizes me and sustains me and I do well is worth celebrating even if it doesn’t look anything like the other mothers who “know.”

Because I’m also the kind of mother who follows her hair-brained ideas, children in-tow. I’m the kind of mother who takes (drags?) her children to political rallies, unfamiliar churches, family reunions, recitals, museums, roadtrips across the country, plane trips across the world and anywhere I can to pass along a sense of adventure.

I’m the kind of mother who camps even though she hates it, who plays in the snow even though it’s miserably cold, who jumps off the high dive and bungees off bridges even though she’s terrified, who wakes up at 5am to run even though she’s tired and slow, and who plants a garden even though she’s suckish at it (their word, not mine) to help them understand grit and determination.

I’m the kind of mother who makes wickedly cool costumes for Halloween and book reports, dances to salsa music for breakfast on Cinco de Mayo, and is always good for a prank on April Fool’s Day, so they feel the celebration of life.

I’m the kind of mother who relishes her child’s friendship with the girl at school who speaks no English and “barks like a dog”, who sings Happy Birthday with her kids to the homeless man at the restaurant, and who shows up at service projects, even planning a few of her own, to show them humanity, that there’s a need for us beyond ourselves.

I’m the kind of mother who would be honored to die saving my child’s life, who stood between the angry dog and her 8 year old, who steals kisses every chance she gets, who goes to check in on them “one more time” before going to bed, and who will always make them call home, because I love them to pieces.

But I’m also the kind of mother who has passions beyond them. I’m the kind of mother who loves alone time with their father, working at a career and retreating with friends. And so should they.

I’m starting to embrace the idea that despite the moments of despair, I am actually getting more out of this arrangement we have than they are, I am the one doing the most “growing up”; better yet, I can see that they do not expect nor want me to sacrifice my hopes and dreams and friendships and self in their name.

And despite their protests of my meanness and my complete lack of understanding what it’s like to be them, I have a little inkling that they love me too.

What kind of parent are you?