Confessions of Imperfection

"Mom!" I heard fear in my daughter's voice as I unbuckled my middle kid. Suddenly my giggling baby was flying "wheee" toward me on a stolen tricycle across the OUAC parking lot and that's not all, a car had to brake for him. Later I knew I should have apologized and lavishly thanked the driver for taking care. In the moment I felt too embarrassed and incompetent to even make eye contact. I snatched up the baby (unhappy to relinquish the tricycle) and held him tight.

My daughter was supposed to be holding the baby's hand. But at six, she isn't responsible for a one-year-old in front of a toy store. The baby brother is strong, fast and capricious. From now on, he will always be the last one removed from the car.

Why is it that I take comfort in the fact that I'm not the only mama who suffers significant lapses in parenting finesse? Wouldn't it be better for children everywhere if I really was the only recurrently maladroit mother out there? Yet as I read "get born" facebook confessions of moms who left safety seats unbuckled, forgot to feed a toddler, spaced the daycare pickup, or can't remember children's birthdays at the doctor, I know we share a bond of imperfection. My neighbor's daughter drank cough syrup. A friend's son choked down coins and she had to recover them from subsequent diapers.

I once arrived at a MOPS meeting and discovered in the parking lot that I had only two kids with me and my week-old newborn was still at home, sleeping in his carrier just inside the door. Can anybody I know outdo that? I HOPE NOT, but I wouldn't doubt it. I'm tempted to scrutinize other moms when they're having a good day, convince myself they are always full of beauty, wisdom and eternal patience, and measure myself inadequate. I begin to fantasize that they never fall from grace and there must be something seriously wrong with me, living in such blatant humanity.

Those reminders that I'm not alone help curb the tendency to indulge in a classic guilt-ridden pity party probably involving excessive chocolate or corn chips. Well that and looking in my children's endlessly loving and forbearing faces. I really don't expect my middle son to harbor ill feelings about the preventable tantrum scar on his eyebrow, or the fact that his bike helmet is tough to fit on his misshapen skull forever flat on one side and pointy on top because I neglected to rotate his sleeping head in his first four months of life. No, he will forgive and love me just as my daughter has after being accidentally locked in the garage for ten terrified minutes when she was three - and just as the baby brother will if he ever finds out his mama let him loose in front of traffic.

Haunted by the inevitable

At some point, we are all going to die.

Not like this is ground breaking news that we all didn't realize before, but it's a fact I never really focused on until becoming a mom. Maybe it's because before starting a family, I really didn't care if I met my demise anytime soon. Maybe it's because I feel like I now have something to lose. Whatever the case, I feel like I'm constantly haunted by the inevitable.

Now that my boys are growing a little bit older, my husband and I have more freedom to go out on our own leaving them behind with a sitter. We are enjoying date nights at concerts at The Aggie and Mishawaka and have even started to do some overnight stays at hotels in Denver. The freedom to enjoy these moments with my husband is amazing. Long gone are the days of being home-bound and bored with limits and restrictions that revolve around diaper changes, nap schedules and feeding regimens. Through time, the shackles of babyhood have been broken, leaving us to run free.

On our last kid-free adventure, we drove up to The Mish with friends for a concert. Music blaring, friends laughing, the warm wind blowing through our hair as we rode the twists and turns of the road hugging the beautiful Poudre River while driving up the canyon. Our kids at home with the sitter and safely tucked in their beds, I couldn't help but think how dangerous this trip was. At a moments notice, we could be in a head-on collision, swerve off the road and into the river, or a true reality, hit a deer.

My biggest fear is not knowing what would happen to my kids if both my husband and I were to die at the same time.

Most families are fairly normal. When you have your first baby, one of the most important steps in becoming a parent is drawing up a Will, laying out a plan of care for your children if you should expire earlier than you hoped. Normal families have Grandparents, Aunts, Uncles, or some trusted adults named to take over and keep your kids safe. We do not. Without going into a long list of specifics, there is nobody I trust enough with my kids if I should die.

This fact recently hit me like a ton of bricks a few weeks ago after reading the news story in The Coloradoan. The one about the parents who made some very poor decisions, speeding and driving drunk down Lemay, only to end up in a fatal and gory car accident at the insurance office building. They left behind children with no plans for their care. Friends and family rallied to raise money to take care of the mourning children and their future was uncertain.

I can't even begin to explain how disturbing this was to me. Not that my husband and I make stupid decisions like speeding while driving drunk, but life is unpredictable. Anything can happen at any time. My boys could easily be in the same situation, parent-less and bouncing from house to house, or in foster care, while people manage the mess of the aftermath.

These thoughts are often buried deep within the halls of my mind, but every so often a door is opened and I'm tormented by what has surfaced. I don't care about an afterlife, meeting a maker or simply returning to dust. I care immensely about what happens to my children after I'm gone. And until they are able to care for themselves, I will always be haunted by the inevitable.

Kristin Mastre

I'm not the "fun mom"

There are all types of moms out there - the crafty mom who makes the kids' Halloween costumes and Christmas Stockings every year, the gourmet mom who makes homemade meals from scratch, the cool mom who is up to date on the latest trends and then there's the fun mom who does silly things like puppet plays and making tents from couch cushions.

I'm not sure what type of mom I am, but I know for sure that I am not the "fun mom". In the four years that I've been a pseudo stay-at-home-mom (a working mom that has the hours and responsibility of a stay at home mom?), I've never enjoyed imaginary play with dinosaurs and cars or crafted little creations from Play-doh. I've enjoyed reading to them and cuddling, for sure, and we have lots of laughs tickling and making funny faces, but the fun and silly part of parenthood has been left up to my husband.

I often wonder if the daily grind of diaper changes, potty training, tantrums and discipline have zapped me of all my "fun mom" material. Maybe that's why it's easy for my husband to be the fun parent; he's been gone all day and hasn't had to deal with any of the insanity. He comes home to kids excitedly running to the door yelling "DADDY IS HOME!", snuggles and video games, bed time stories...the fun stuff.

I also often wonder what type of mom my boys will think of me as when they are grown. Will I be the constant nag always telling them to pick up their toys? Will I be the neglectful mom because of the work I do? Maybe the tough mom because I have high expectations.

Whatever the case, I can't help but feel a bit guilty that I'm not the "fun mom".

Kristin Mastre

Stepping Up

My husband took the picture. I wouldn't have. Had I witnessed the scene unfolding, I would have promptly scooped up my two-year-old, scolded him, and sent him dragging all those step stools back from whence they came. But for better or worse, I arrived too late.

He is a persistent little guy, and as self-sufficient as can be. He needed a shirt. So he collected step stools from two bathrooms and started stacking. Thank God he is sure-footed and has a good sense of balance. In the end, he did get the shirt he was after, nothing crashed to the ground, and we have a great visual reminder of his ingenuity.

Although I'm not an over-protective mom, I still don't think I'm ready for the challenge of raising this vivacious toddler and his tumbly baby brother. My careful, cautious girl never did stuff like this, and probably never will. But I'm learning that risk is inherent in raising boys. To tell the truth, when I saw what my son had accomplished, I was actually kind of proud of him. Good thing I wasn't there to ruin it at the start.