Everyone needs feedback on their job performance, and moms are no exception.
I thought I was overdue for a review, but first, a self-appraisal.
Voilà — My Mothering Scorecard.
I wanted to tally the stats of my mothering scorecard and see how I stacked up.
I’ll be honest. My stats were all over the place. Not every swing was a hit, and not every hit was a home run. In fact, sometimes I was scared hitless.
So my batting average was erratic. Fielding? Meh.
I thought about the many times I had just wanted to kick the ground in a dusty display of frustration or throw my helmet towards the dugout while expectorating tobacco juice in a thin stream of defiance.
Let’s face it. Mothering can bring out the best and the worst in us.
To be fair, I had some home runs, but too many errors to count. Errors that still make me cringe. Like these:
Error #1
I pray that my son has blocked out the time when, as a 7 year-old, he got dropped off by the school bus and couldn’t get in our house. Where was his mother, who should have been there waiting with milk and cookies and a hug? Trapped in stand-still traffic for over an hour. No cell phone, of course. Nowhere to even pull over to call a neighbor.
I was frantic. This had never happened before, this inability to connect with my son when he expected it. Like being unable to make the bat meet the ball.
My poor little boy will be hysterical, I thought, banging my fists on the steering wheel.
But when I finally careened around the corner, as if rounding third base, I saw Evan sitting calmly on the front step waiting for me.
Finally ready for milk and cookies.
Score: Traffic won handily but I avoided a shutout.
Error #2
My younger daughter was far too young – just an infant – to remember the time I dropped her on the floor.
I was holding her in my arms while looking out her bedroom window at … something. Was it falling snow? Kids playing ball? I don’t remember. What I do recall is the eerie slow motion of her free fall out of my arms onto the (luckily) carpeted floor. It felt like an out-of-body experience, like I was an onlooker, shaking my head reproachfully at some doofus who didn’t know how to hold onto her baby.
Did my baby cry? Yes. I think it more from the look of horror on my face than actual injury. She was fine.
I’m OK, Mom!
Score: Carpeting saved the game when I was called out at home plate.
Error #3
When my older daughter was about eight, she liked wearing her hair long and straight. It was time to go to the hair salon for a trim, but Emily said she wanted to change the style up a bit. “I’m not sure what she’s thinking,” I told Alex, the hairdresser, “but she wants to surprise me, so I’ll leave her in your good hands.” Alex had been cutting Emily’s hair for years. I trusted her.
Emily instructed me to not look while getting her new “do,” so I took a walk outside. Twenty minutes later I returned to the salon and thought she would be waiting for me. She wasn’t.
I searched every corner. She wasn’t in Alex’s chair. Nor was she hanging out by the door or sitting in the reception area.
“Mom?” a voice chirped and I looked down to see a little boy tugging my sleeve. A little boy who looked a bit like Emily.
“OMG!” I shrieked. “What happened to your hair?”
The sides were shaved into a reasonable facsimile of a buzz cut. The top was barely a fringe. Emily’s hair was so short that for many months afterward she was mistaken for a boy.
Did my daughter have gender confusion? Would she be able to ignore the curious stares that came with this territory? More importantly, would I be seen as a bad mother who could have saved her daughter this embarrassment if only she had been more attentive?
On the other hand, I had given her creative license to be herself, whoever that was. Maybe she had some kind of artistic genius. Maybe she was setting a trend. Could I be the mother of a fashion prodigy?
Her tomboy phase.
Score: Tied. Emily got the look she wanted and I got points for being the kind of mother who gives her kid permission to express herself.
We Made It Through Extra Innings
With my smattering of runs, hits and errors, I’m probably like most moms. N0t many of us can pitch a perfect game. But to our kids, we are all MVPs (Most Valuable Parents).
High fives to all of us.
