Motherhood is a thankless job. It certainly was not created with the self-indulgent and self-centered in mind. In fact, I firmly contend that it is best handled by martyrs, willing victims and all-around silent sufferers.
We mothers – the damsels of despair – fill the drawers with clean socks, the dispensers with antibacterial soap, and what do we get for it? A group of people who apparently believe that cavities fill themselves.
Then there’s the organizing and the carpooling and the endless case of bleacher-butt in the face of adversity. That combined with a balanced meal won’t earn us any rewards or recognitions, but what it lacks in compensation it more than makes up for with a dash of despondency.
And yet when I look back on my mother’s active parenting days, I remember her doing it with style and grace. There were always carrots in the crisper, and when the bread drawer ran on the empty side, she was creative enough to fill a small Tupperware bowl with puffed rice and powdered milk and sent us to school with instructions to add water and enjoy.
Best yet, she did all of this without ever using a bad word. I pale in comparison.
Take the other night for instance. For reasons we may never understand, I had thought that a special event lay before me: The diamond in the rough, the sunlight at the end of the tunnel, the epitome of parenthood, the best of all things good – the free evening.
I had been looking forward to it all day. In fact, I was so excited that I couldn’t stand it. I had visions of what our family would look like if we were all at home. I pictured us gathered ’round the kitchen table or perhaps outside on the deck. I would soak up the sun and drink lemonade while my husband stood at the grill. The kids would toss a Frisbee to the dog, birds would sing, and laughter would fill the air as PBS filmed us for a documentary titled “The Happy American Family.”
I was in the midst of pinching avocados and considering chives at the local grocers when my youngest lad looked up at me with all of the love he could muster and said, “We’d better get to rolling if we’re going to get me to batting practice on time.”
I suppose that if I had been aware of the batting practice, I might have handled things with an ounce of decorum. I’m sure that if I had been in the know, I would have caressed his little face, praised his punctuality and wrapped things up with a warm and heartfelt “Yes, dear, and always remember, Mommy loves.”
But since I believed I was about to embark on a rare and free evening complete with a family meal, I was a tad dismayed that it would be trashed by yet another organized event. I looked at my little dear and stifled a full-blown hissy fit as I suppressed bad words and simply asked, “What batting practice?”
“You know,” he responded with all of the knowledge that his 11 years would allow, “the kind of batting practice where you practice batting.”
Just what I needed: a wisecracker in the produce section.
Trust me when I say that my avoidance of bad words was no small feat. I grasped the fact that not only did I not have time to pinch avocados, chop chives or pose for PBS, but that I had to run this child to batting practice.
And since we were miles from home with not nearly enough gear to take us anywhere but to a barbecue, I would need to race to the abode, swoop in as if on a rope and grab garb for his batting behind. Sadly enough, even if a helicopter would transport us there and kick us out at our drop zone, I wouldn’t be able to do it all in time.
“Grandma,” my little Charlie boldly tattled over lunch the next day. “My mom said the ‘s’ word.”
“LoriAnn!” my mother said, making no attempt to hide her disgust, “and right in front of the children?”
And that, dear friends, is just the kind of thanks that a mother gets.
Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” You can reach her at www.loriclinch. com.