Perfection? Over it

I think I’m selfish. Scratch that. I am selfish. I want happiness, peace, prosperity, order, and spontaneity. I want my kids to present to the world as little humans that I’ve molded into poster children for perfect youths: strong students, responsible and respectful kids, and dedicated athletes (if they choose). The best at it all, thereby making me SUPERMOM – because, you know, their every success is a direct reflection of me (right?).

I need to get over it.

My son is likely at school right now with over-excited, wax-producing ears. He’s probably twisting a tuft of hair between his fingers and adding to the bald spot forming there. Oh, and avoiding endless redundant tracing and coloring activities he’s grown bored of.

My daughter is likely still sulking about our impromptu splurge at McD’s which resulted in a botched order and my berating her about reading her receipt. Seriously, though, who reviews the little slip of typed figures? I can only hope she’ll be over it all by the time she’s suiting up for the track meet.

My eldest is probably avoiding the girl he said asked him out (and he simply walked away from, because though she’s attractive, she’s been blessed with a gap in her teeth that displays when she happily laughs with abandon or reserve). He’s sitting in the library in some unobtrusive spot idly passing time, though I suspect it’s not used reading or finishing assignments. I suppose there are worse places to escape to, and at least he could find something enriching to stimulate him.

Of these three school age charges I’m responsible for, I can only hope that the expectations we’ve set are met: good behavior – – the king displaying etiquette and respect – – despite no present threat of parental chastisement; respect of others and attitude-free interactions with adults/authority; and, initiative to do what it takes to achieve beyond generic expectation. In short, make SUPERMOM proud to be called “mom” in public. Yep, selfishly seeking to look like ‘parent of the year.’

It ain’t happening.

Our color coded calendar burns the retinas with florescent pink, green, yellow and blue activities and appointments for each child. Games and meets take Monday and Tuesday. Photo shoots claim many early afternoon and weekend hours.

And time to clean? Sadly, that is squeezed into sparse moments of reserved energy and determination sandwiched between long stretches of exhaustion. I had kids, not maids, so assigning every household task to the youngsters isn’t in the plans. But let me tell you, if one more capable cohabitant steps on something instead of helping it to its proper place…. I’m going to squeal!

How do “they” do it? Perfectly polish their homes, groom their kids, maintain composure? And how do I get access to the extra hours that getting “there” will take?

Trophy wife, I am not. Immaculate house, there will never be.

And SUPER MOM? Well, I’ll wear my cape in the house like a costume. I’m allowed to pretend, right?

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