Lately I’ve been inundated with The Perfect Mother. I’ve seen The Perfect Mother on television shows and commercials. I’ve read about The Perfect Mother in books. I’ve heard from my kids about how all the other mothers are, in fact, The Perfect Mother. I’ve seen The Perfect Mother at soccer games, sitting quietly in her chair, not sweating or swearing to herself or hopping up and down like a lunatic. (No, of course I’m not describing myself.)
So, with Mother’s Day coming up, I thought about whether there’s any planet on which I could be described as The Perfect Mother. I know I’m a Darned Good Mother, but Perfect? Hmmm...
Well, no. Not really. Not a chance.
Actually, really pretty far from it.
Perfect Mothers are mature. I pull my husband's pajama pants down when he's walking up the stairs in front of me.
Perfect Mothers are trustworthy. My children have to hide their Easter baskets from me or they know all the Reese's peanut butter products will disappear while they're at school and I will claim to have seen nothing.
Perfect Mothers are respectful. I yell at old people who drive slowly when I'm in a hurry.
Perfect Mothers always insist on proper nutrition. Sometimes I let my kids have chocolate at 8 a.m.
Perfect Mothers are always obedient. I constantly explain to my children that very stupid rules can, and often should, be broken.
Perfect Mothers are cautious and never scream. You should see me flying down a huge hill on a saucer during a snowstorm.
Perfect Mothers are consummate grownups, through and through. Outside, I’m 42. Inside, I still feel like that high school kid sneaking Sun Country wine coolers in a field after a football game.
Perfect Mothers are diplomatic and never snarky. I tell my kids that they're acting bratty and that their friends have issues.
Perfect Mothers are impeccably neat at all times. I love to play in the mud and stomp through rain puddles.
Perfect Mothers aren't competitive. I have to be restrained so I don't join my kids on the soccer fields to help their teams win.
Perfect Mothers are totally appropriate. Umm, have you read my blog?
Perfect Mothers don't like potty talk. My favorite joke is, "Why did Tigger stick his head in the toilet?" "He was looking for Pooh." That was also Jack’s favorite joke at age 4. (Really, I am a bad mommy.)
So the Perfect Mother? Not me. Not at all.
But that’s okay. I’m pretty certain I’m a Perfect Chocolate Chip Cookie Maker. I’m a Perfect Cuddler. I’m a Perfect Stuffed Animal Vet. I’m a Perfect Tear Wiper Away-er. I’m a Perfect Hugger. I’m a Perfect Prankster and, as we know, a Better-Than-Perfect Wine Drinker. (I would say I’m a Perfect Love-er and a Perfect Swing-er but those would get totally misinterpreted).
So happy Mother’s Day. I'm not a Perfect Mother, and maybe you're not either. But I do know we’re all perfect in one way or another.