I always envisioned myself as a super mom. Motherhood has been the focus of my aspirations, from very early in my life. I would have all the patience in the world with my children. I would explain matters, and they would cooperate. I would never have to raise my voice, let alone yell. I wouldn’t spoil them with treats and an overabundance of unearned rewards. And I would never, ever spank. Ever.
What fantasy land was I living in? I am so not the mother I envisioned myself to be. I try to have the patience of Job, but when I’ve given sound explanations and get unblinking, unfaltering whining in return, I begin to wear down. I assumed that all children would want to please their mothers. I remember being a child and wanting desperately to please my mother. I remember having a keen interest in avoiding wrath of any kind. So I assumed my children would be like me. However. My precious 4yo has no discernible interest in avoiding wrath. He wants what he wants. It’s as simple as that. And it confounds me.
In an effort to dissipate the tension during one such moment recently, I stopped arguing for a bit, caught his attention, and said in a loving and teasing voice, “You are a stubborn child, my love. Where do you think you get that from?” He looked at me with his big bright grey eyes, and I could tell he was thinking about it. Meanwhile, with all of us holding eye contact, his dad covertly pointed his finger at me, while I covertly pointed my finger at him. We caught each other pointing through the corner of our eyes, then we all laughed.
And two minutes later (less, actually) the whining and arguing resumed.
I find myself feeling bad about not being the kind of mother I’d hoped I’d be. I haven’t taught BB his numbers or letters. There was a time when he was much younger that we worked on these things, but it’s been ages. We don’t listen to music, or sing and dance along to silly songs. I barely ever read to him. We don’t play games together. When we do work on things together, it lasts only a minute, as his attention span is very very short. I haven’t taught him to ride his bike or play ball. Part of me is racked with guilt over this. He’ll be going to kindergarten in September 2010, and what will he know?
My sister helped me put things in perspective though. She reminded me that nobody worked with us to teach us our numbers or letters. Nobody sang silly songs with us, or played games (until we were older). Nobody read us bedtime stories, or anytime stories. We got very little parental or adult interaction, yet we did just fine when we went to school, and we didn’t even bother with kindergarten. We caught on, caught up, and sped right on. We were fine. So BB will probably be fine. I know he’s smart. I can tell that he does learn things. I hope that he discovers a love of reading. I will encourage him. At this point, though, it’s all I can do to teach him to respect books and not tear the pages, write on them, or poke holes in them (because it’s great fun to do all that).
This motherhood job is so much more difficult than I even imagined it would be. And I am so not living up to my expectations, naive as they may be.
