Confessions of an Imperfect Mother

I never thought I'd be a perfect mother. But, given that this is the job I've wanted my whole entire life, I always figured it would come easier to me than to some people or that I'd do a really good job without really having to try.

But over the last few weeks, Jack has really tested me. I find myself constantly wondering what I'm doing wrong, what I could do better, why my mom was so much better at this than I am.

Jack is a wonderful kid. He really is. However, the hallmarks of his personality are his stubbornness (acquired from his father) and his liveliness (acquired, I think, from his Uncle Andy). Given the trade-off between a kid who just sits quietly all the time and a kid who is curious and going non-stop, most of the time I'd take the latter. However, there are days when the idea of a sit-quietly kid is oh-so appealing to me.

Since before our move, Jack has been cutting molars. I think the discomfort that this seems to be causing him is the reason for much of his crabbiness. When he's not climbing the walls (quite literally) he's whining, wanting to be held, or throwing himself on the floor, tantrum style. (I didn't think tantrums started until kids were older... maybe he's an overachiever?) Meal time has become a chore and an exercise in serious patience for me. He has recently taken to writhing out of the high chair, throwing all of his food on the floor, and refusing to eat. The sensible part of me reminds me to follow the thinking that's come quite naturally to me since Jack was born: don't stress the eating thing... the kid is healthy and will eat when he's hungry. But the human part of me cannot help but want to scream when he flings his food at the walls or throws his plate on the floor, even when I'm giving him his favorite food. Much of what he consumes at meal time these days seems to just be fruit. That used to be his dessert; now it's his main course.

And today, while doing a quick run to Trader Joe's, he had a complete and utter meltdown in his stroller. (I cannot shop with him by sitting him in the shopping cart anymore; he immediately struggles to climb out and I don't want to risk a kid with a serious head injury from falling out.) So, I did what I always used to say I'd never do (even though I saw other parents resort to this all the time): I grabbed a container of animal crackers, broke the plastic seal, and gave him a few to keep him quiet while I finished grabbing a few more items. Granted, they were the ORGANIC crackers, but still that did little to quell my sense of disappointment in myself for committing a cardinal sin (in my book) of feeding my son to keep him well-behaved while shopping.

I hate, hate, hate that I've started using food as the ticket to peace and quiet. For about 45 minutes on our drive back to Ann Arbor from my parents' yesterday, I handed mini pretzels back to Jack to keep him happy. I had no one else in the car to help and he refused the Cheerios I initially offered. So I did what worked. Pretzels. I try to comfort myself by saying "at least he's not eating McDonalds and heavily-processed foods... there are worse things than chickpeas and blueberries and clementines and bananas!" but deep down I know that I'm not really doing the right thing. I know I should not use food as a reward or a punishment. I know that contributes to childhood obesity. And I want Jack to be healthy. But sometimes -- oftentimes, lately -- I am just at my wits' end.

I was lamenting to my mom the other day that I think it's foolish that so many books are written on caring for babies. "Babies are EASY," I told her. "It's when the kid gets a mind of his own that the real trouble starts and then you really need guidance!"

Today, while driving around with Jack and Shergar (don't even get me started on Shergar's behavior lately...) while Mick did an important call, I found myself tearing up and wondering why I couldn't be a better mom. This might sound silly to some, but this is my full-time job and I take it incredibly seriously. I am wracking my brain trying to figure out how my mom pulled this off. She always wanted a dozen kids (no kidding!) and I think she was really cut out for it. I cannot remember her ever getting angry or impatient with us when we were little. (Well, except for the one time when she banned us from going trick-or-treating because she thought we lost a gold necklace with a cross pendant on it; she thought we had lost it while playing Mass in the basement. Seriously. How many kids do you know who "play" Mass? I guess that's a Catholic-school upbringing for you. Of course, I was always the priest. Progressive even as a child...)

This morning, I saw a woman in business attire grabbing a few groceries, BY HERSELF, and for a split second I thought "I wonder what it would be like if I had a "real" job? If I didn't have to deal with the crabbiness and whininess day in and day out and I had an office door that I could close and I could actually go to the bathroom without someone standing two feet away and unrolling all of the toilet paper." And then I put Jack back in his car seat and turned on the car and he started bobbing his head to the music and smiling. And my heart melted and I remembered why I am doing the REAL job that I am doing. And why I love it.

But boy is it hard.