Game of Life

It was a Sunday afternoon in spring when the phone rang.  A friend, we’ll call her Sam, called exasperated and exhausted.

“Tell me,” she ground out, “does the urge to tell my son to swallow his spit after the 250^th request for a glass of water after I tucked him in make me a bad mom?”

I tried not to laugh. I failed. The whole thing sounded way too familiar. “I don’t think so,” I said “But, I have to admit I’m not the best person to ask. Growing up, Swallow your spit was the mantra of all family car rides, right before you can pee when we get there.” I thought a moment. “In hindsight, the former was probably to avoid the latter.”

Sam laughed, although it was more a weak and defeated chuckle than true guffaw.

 “What happened?” I asked.

“I have no idea! What on earth would make a previously happy and independent two-year-old suddenly develop Velcro and permanently attach himself to my body? I had a genuine fight or flight response.”

 I could almost hear her hands flying around her head as she spoke.

“I tried to put him down in church, he is heavy. He wouldn’t let me! I literally ripped him off my body and set him down for two seconds. I had to; he was pulling my shirt off in the middle of service!”

“I bet that didn’t go over well,” I said.

“He and my shirt ended up on the floor. I don’t know what was louder, his screaming bloody murder or the ripping of my last good blouse. Not only did the two ladies behind me get a show but the priest’s wife looked at me like I must have beaten him. I had to leave. I never leave church!”

“Well,” I said. “Again, you are probably not asking the most neutral party. I have a Velcro child too.”

“Ugh,” said Sam. “I don’t know how to do this! I am actually beginning to resent this mother-child bond thing.”

“That’s because kids use emotional superglue,” I said and was rewarded with a true laugh from Sam.

Sam and I came to no great revelation that day. Nor have we come to many in the years that have followed, pregnant with parenting missteps and angst. We have soldiered on, comforted by the simple companionship of murky parenting. She stinks. I stink. She struggles. I struggle. Neither of us knows what we are doing and we both suspect the kids are fully aware of that fact.

Today, many, many years later, I find myself mulling over that particular conversation in the scant quiet time between career and kids. Our Velcro kids are ten years older. As it turned out we didn’t have to go to kindergarten with them. Why did we feel so bad, so judged by ourselves and everyone around us? Why do we still feel that way?

I know there are others like me out there, wondering if they are bad parents. I hear them muttering over cereal choices. Do I pick what the kids will eat or what they should eat? I see their stories on social websites. My son slapped that mannequin’s naked behind! Where did he learn that? And why was she naked? I have been on the receiving and giving end of the Mortified Parent dance. It usually goes something like I am so sorry! I have no idea why he did that. He certainly didn’t learn it from us! It will never, ever happen again.

As a mother, it is too easy for me to take on my children’s failings and triumphs as a direct extension of my action or inaction and thereby an extension of myself. As another friend of mine pointed out today, we are adults raising future adults. Like a business that nurtures, develops and puts out a product, we nurture and develop another human being and release them into the world.

Being a parent has been a rollercoaster ride of terror and elation. I have held them, loved them, and watched them fall and fly since the minute they were born.   I have given tears, given sweat, given blood and allowed them to break my nose.  Well, not so much allowed them to break it as failed to avoid having it broken. I have scars and innumerable ruined panty hose from the Velcro child.  She continues to cling but in a less affronting manner and with more eye rolling.  

My grandma, a wise woman, said “You have to look in the cracks.” Parenting isn’t like making the bed, or completing a project at work. There is little total and immediate gratification. When my kids are asleep and it is quiet enough to hear myself think the parental Guilt Monster comes out of the closet. Then all I can remember of the day is how many times I yelled or when I punished them or spoke with impatience. Then I feel like a rotten, terrible failure.

But I am not a rotten, terrible failure. I just forget to look in the cracks. I forgot about the little things.

What’s in those cracks? Well for me it is this: They tell me they love me. They want to play games, read stories and go to the zoo, with me. They draw me pictures of Mommy and Daddy, and cover them with hearts and X’s and O’s. They come to me when they have had a bad day, skinned knee or bruised feelings. I am the ultimate lost crayon finder, lunch maker and belch contest winner.

Like all of the rest of us, kids have their own junk.  They come in with it, like some cosmic, karmic booby prize.  I can just hear Mr. Announcer Guy saying:

.... and Mrs. Holdsworth, for playing the Game of Life you will go home with a lovely 8 pound, 4 ounce, pink bundle of joy.   She poops, she eats, she coos, she cries and burps, she's got ten   fingers, ten toes, a cute little belly button and smells like heaven (most of the time). But wait! As a bonus gift-just for playing- you get a free upgrade to the super deluxe model complete with Kung Fu grip and tentacle arms with super glue suction.  This model won't eat anything but cheerios for three years and is afraid of spiders, dogs, men, vacuum cleaners and anything blue.  And just to say Thank You for playing we will throw in the Insecurity upgrade for free!  This fabulous piece of software will make it impossible to put your bundle of joy down until one day when she wriggles out of your arm, turns, waves bye and runs off without a backward glance. She will ruin your clothes, date night and any hope for a decent night’s sleep. She will consume your heart and your mind and you won’t care a bit, well, maybe a little bit, but you will be too busy to notice.

*Disclaimer*

Sanity upon arrival of your child’s 21^st birthday not guaranteed. Results advertised in parenting books not typical of average user, in fact, throw them out, all of them. Game of Life will not be held responsible for any lost sleep, watches down the toilet, important phone messages or remote controls (tie it to a brick, it works) socks under the couch, candy stashed behind the book shelf, parental hearing loss due to long hours of the Wiggles, Yo Gabba Gabba, Hannah Montana or Justin Bieber, or transient pediatric deafness due to requests to clean her room, feed the dog, take out the garbage or give back that diary. Fees for services will not exceed 150% of your funds, energy and patience. Results of good parenting or even mediocre parenting are not guaranteed under any acronym known to man or universe. These kids are wildcards, accept it. Refunds will not be awarded under any circumstances including public embarrassment, hunger strike or Goth/emo period. As the author’s grandmother says, you can’t return her, you already used her. The views and opinions of the author expressed in this article do not necessarily state or reflect those of said author every day of the week. After all, she has her good days and her not so good ones but now she has to go because the dog is choking on something, the boys are beating each other with Lego swords and the girls are way too quiet. Have a nice day. J