I talked with my daughter last night. We don’t talk often; we haven’t been truly close since she left the house at barely 18 and an awkward wall of silence grew between us as a result. So when I woke up in the morning remembering the dream I had been having that featured her prominently, and when her name flashed in my IM list late last night, I knew something was up.  It was time to go into Mom Gear.

But how far do you take it? When can you stop being a mom? When do you let go?
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I’m a terrible delegator. I would do a thing myself a hundred times over rather than suffer the agony of hovering over someone else doing it—gasp!—not to my standards. I would do the thing myself those hundred times while all the while muttering passive-aggressive little mutterings under my breath about why won’t people ever do anything around here? I have totally screwed myself, and I know it: my kids don’t do chores.

Oh sure, we tried it. Maybe a thousand times.
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Growing up, the worst word I ever heard my mom say was “rat-biscuits.” When I was eight my mom cried when my older brother and I wouldn’t stop uttering made-up possibly-sex-related words, enjoying saying them for the sheer scandoulousness of it. She cried, we stopped. Later on I was exposed to real swearing; some words made it into my vocabulary and some did not.

When I had kids, everything changed. Like crying, the swearing I did was a part of me that I wasn’t sure I wanted to share with my kids. I’m by no means a sailor or truck driver (unfortunate characterizations, to be sure, but you get the idea) when it comes to swearing, nor am I a total prude, but knowing that my behavior provides a model for my kids put a spotlight on it. Do you swear in front of your kids? And when? And what qualifies as swearing?
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Remember when making friends was easy? Maybe that was you. Me, I never found it easy. I didn’t have my first friend until 2nd grade, and even then it was probably happenstance, being sent to share the glue pot with Jennifer R. and becoming BFFs for the next 3 years.

What about now? And more importantly, what about finding friends now that you’re a mom? It’s well-known how difficult it is to remain close to a friend when one has kids and one does not—I mean, only the really extra-special relationship makes it through that challenge. And it’s also well-known how isolating motherhood can be without a support circle. So then what? How do you make friends with someone who shares your interests and who appreciates your wacky sense of humor and who, well, gets you?
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Last night, watching the U.S. election returns, it was hard not to let a few tears slip as I tapped into the incredible emotions playing out all over the country. My mind went back to when I was a kid, in a similar situation, and it hit me that I never saw my parents cry.

Is that weird? Unusual? I’m betting it isn’t. Sure, my parents grew up, as many did, as part of the Stoic Generation, but I think there’s something bigger going on: parents are afraid to look vulnerable in front of their kids. Is this you?
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In a word: yes. Yes, we want sex ed in our kindergartens. Yes, we want our kids growing up empowered and informed. Yes, we want to remove stupid social taboos about talking about our bodies. Yes, we want our kids to grow up loving themselves and holding one another in esteem and respect.

But while I love the idea of teaching our kids—when they are still kids and not sexualized mini almost-adults—about sex, I have some serious problems with the idea. Serious.
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As a kid, Halloween was my second-favorite holiday. Okay, third. At any rate, there was candy involved, and if I played my cards right I’d have candy straight through until Christmas. Score.

As a mom I hate Halloween. People knocking on my door all night, begging for free stuff? No, no, and no. If it wasn’t for the fact that the little ones look so awfully cute being nudged up to the door in their costumes, I would shut off my light and refuse to answer the door. Because the real reason I hate Halloween is that people just don’t play by the rules. My rules.
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When I was a kid, I was offered a glass of wine with dinner whenever I wanted one.

OMG.  That phrase struck you with, what, disgust?  Disbelief?  Discombobulation?  I get the feeling that most parents today, thinking about the possibility that Evil Alcohol might sully little Isabella’s or Ethan’s lips of purity, would swoon.  But I think that offering alcohol to kids is perfectly fine.  In fact, I encourage it.
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Sarah Palin’s entry into our consciousness has polarized the U.S., and not just politically.  Love her or hate her, much of our opinion about her is based on her identity as a mom.

Wha??

Aside from the fact that hello, it’s her political attributes (or lack of them) that we should be looking at, it feels like much of the debate over Sarah Palin is nothing more than a thinly-disguised continuation of the Mommy Wars.  Working moms vs. stay-at-home moms.  And I am sick of all the judging that is STILL going on with this. Can we stop now?
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Ever noticed how many how-to books there are about babies and raising kids?  Seriously.  Go to any bookstore right now.  There must be bazillions.  And everybody’s an expert.  Doctors are experts, psychologists are experts, people who think they know stuff are experts.  Your neighbors, your in-laws, random people on the street, they’re all experts too.  All of them are experts on your kids. On YOUR family.

Hello?!  What’s wrong with this picture?

Um, lots.

We’ve forgotten how to trust ourselves, to trust our own instincts, to even acknowledge our instincts.  Instead, we’ve become, collectively, a pack of drones raising identically-parented robot-kids who are destined to become identical robot-adults.  I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of this.  We deserve better, and our kids deserve better.  It’s time to stop.
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