Just now I found myself singing “I’m a Little Teapot.” I was alone. Well, no kids around. No excuse. It’s not even a song I LIKE. In fact, it reminds me of Candyland, which seemed like such an awesome game when I was a kid (OMG! Candy Mountain! Now I’d rather repeatedly stab my eyeballs with a rusty fork than play it Ever. Again). But “I’m a Teapot”? It has never been my song. I was baffled by it in kindergarten. What were all these silly hand movements? Here is my handle? Why do I need a spout? WTF?!
All that teapot angst reminded me of how not a day went by, maybe not an hour, that I did not sing to my kids. Years of singing. Now my partner asks me frequently to sing to him, and when I do I remember how I figured out how to time singing “Edelweiss” in exactly one minute, because that was the only song that would make infant Serena stop crying. I kept myself from going mad by trying to sing it in exactly sixty seconds. Over and over, my plea to a colicky baby.
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I was a Yes Mom. Not the good kind. The out of control kind.
When I was little I was dumbfounded by the question teachers asked us at the beginning of every year through about third grade: “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Really? I remember wondering, We have a choice? Is it that easy? And the choices offered — fireman, doctor, teacher, secretary — sounded so … wrong to me. Not wrong, exactly. Incomplete. Not ME. Is that all there is? I wondered, I have to choose one of those? I have to know now? I admired the kids who were certain about what they wanted, but I always thought that, for me, there would be more. Something wonderful. Something so awesome, so magical, maybe, that nobody had even thought of it yet.
A defining Bad Mom Moment came when my kids and I were playing a game where they had to pretend to be different things. “Be a lion!” “Be a cloud!” “Be a flower!” “Be a spoon!” (that one was hard, and hilarious) I quickly ran out of ideas of things they could pretend to be so I started having them be people they knew. “Be Nathaniel!” “Be Serena!” It had to be my turn soon, we had already run through everyone they knew. What would they do? “Be Mama!”
Yes, I had an awesome visit with my kids last week, thank you. A highlight for me was the electric boat I had rented through Groupon. We packed a Whole Foods crusty-baguette-sandwich picnic lunch, we somewhat successfully remembered cameras (one child out of two), we had ready a playlist of fun music, and we promptly shoved off into Lake Union, downtown Seattle. “Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale, a tale of a fateful trip…” It was very cool to see my new city from the water with my kids. We all had a great time. Except one of us. The one hiding her nose in a book.
Two of my four kids are coming to see me today. One week out of fifty-two. This will be the first time they see me in my new home in Seattle (they have visited twice when I lived north of Seattle in a smaller city). This will be the first time they meet my new love. This will be the last time fifteen-year old Nathaniel sees me before he goes off to France to live for a year, likely returning forever changed by a year abroad. This will be the last time eleven-year old Serena sees me before she enters middle school, forever changed by growing up, puberty, and sixth grade dances.
When my older daughter was born I began to strategize and plan her life. Isn’t that what we parents do? We dream big into our children’s futures. We imagine their first steps, their first days of school, their first prom dates. So when Jessica was born, like every other parent I began thinking about her future. Our future. And what was my priority? Nope, not preschool waiting lists and Ivy League saving plans — my burning question was simple. Urgent. Life-affirming. And … all about me. How long would it take before she would be into Legos? 
As parents, we walk a thin red line of responsibility. Suddenly becoming a small weak adorable being’s whole world is a wake-up call of sorts. Sleep in on a Sunday morning? Not so fast, bucko — there’s diapers to change, 4am feedings, or just plain crying-for-no-earthly-reason. And when that goes away, there is the sweetness of small feet padding in to the parental bedroom, a small warm body looking for comfort, the Sunday morning pancake ritual. Or early morning ferrying to cross country meets, basketball games, soccer practice. As parents we willingly make the shift from beer bong to Baby Bjorn. We do this from love. We do this because it is the right thing to do. And that’s as it should be, right?
The day is coming. I can deny it all I want, but it is coming and there is nothing I can do about it. My daughter is hitting puberty. And likely she is going to date. Boys. Maybe girls. Whatever. Either way she needs a mother’s advice about dating. Right?
It’s time we stopped trying to fix our shy kids. So what if they quietly sit on our laps at Mommy and Me classes? Those kids aren’t detaching from the world or being swallowed up by the floor; they’re being quietly observant, taking in and analyzing the world around them. Not to diss the extroverts happily parading around the room banging on drums, taking tigers by the tail, and generally being Awesome with a capital A, but 
