Advice Overload

I just read a parenting article that made me feel like a failure as a mom.  I know I'm not a failure, but many times, when I read articles about how I should not rush my kids, stop and smell the roses, nurture their artistic side, take them on amazing vacations, teach them math facts, be sensitive to all their many emotions, listen, don't yell, be authoritative, and on and on, I feel overwhelmed.  It's not that I don't think most of theses things are pieces of good parenting.  It's that I am human.  I am a real woman with a personality, and it is flawed.  I don't like yelling at my kids.  I don't do it often, but every now and then, the mommy bomb goes off because I just cannot take it anymore.  The thing about reading parenting articles is, it makes me uber-analytical about my own parenting.  I start worrying that I've permanently scarred my kids because I am an imperfect parent.  I know this is not the intent of the articles.  They are meant to be helpful, and I wish I could just take them as possibly useful little nuggets of information without obsessing over whether or not I measure up to them for days on end.
I did come up with a thought recently, though, while on vacation without the kids - just about the only time I am capable of original thought.  I am not one hundred percent responsible for the adults my kids will become.  Maybe some of you are thinking, "well, duh," but it was nothing short of epiphany for me.  There are their own genetics, which come from Jason and me, but are hardly within our control.  There will be school, friends, teachers, jobs, random circumstance.  It's not all on us as parents.  When I think about it, the one thing I could do to improve my parenting would be to freaking relax a bit.  When Jack was born, I was a ball of stress.  I was so afraid something would go wrong or I would somehow mess him up.  With Gage I was better, but there's still that whisper saying, "You've been doing it wrong," almost every time I read an article with parenting advice in it.  I don't know why I'm convinced article writers know how I should be raising my children necessarily.  I mean, they're my kids, right?  I know them, and I even have an actual degree in child development and family relations, so I should basically know what I'm doing, even if I'm not perfect.  Sometimes, I actually think if I knew less about child rearing, I'd be happier.  Ignorance is bliss, right?  So since I can't manage to take parenting advice from the experts lightly, I think I'll stop reading the articles.  It's just like when I was fourteen and stopped reading Seventeen magazine, because leafing through it and seeing all the stick-skinny models made me feel bad about myself.  Don't get me wrong; all the information available to parents these days can be great.  It can give you ideas about how to solve problems with your kids, and it can make you realize you're not the only one experiencing something.  I just wish there were a few more articles out there telling us parents, it's okay if you're not perfect.  Your kids are not going to grow up to be serial killers because you yelled at them one time for dumping a whole box of Cheerios on the floor.  They may be serial killers, but it won't be because you yelled at them.

Concerts Through the Years

Jason and I went to see The Killers in concert Friday night, while the kids were with my parents.  I had a blast.  The Killers put on a great show.  They sounded perfect and included some neat tricks, like fire work-type pyrotechnics and masses of confetti falling from the ceiling.  I found myself standing with Jason, a little more than halfway to the front of the arena floor.  Here, the people were thick, but not pressed up against each other, as they would be closer to the stage.  I jumped, danced, clapped, sang and really really enjoyed myself.  It occurred to me I was actually having more fun than I had at most of the concerts I went to pre-children, when I sometimes attended a music venue just because my friends wanted to go.  Don't get me wrong; there were a couple of stand-out concerts I'll never forget.  One was seeing Pearl Jam at South Park Meadows, back in '95, when it was just a big, open field and not the massive shopping center it is today.  I had just turned twenty years old and started my junior year at UT.  It was September, and if you know Austin, Texas, you know it was still hotter than hell.  My friends and I all got separated.  I pushed my way to the front, where I contentedly mooned over the band, despite the bodies pressed up against me so hard I had trouble breathing, the blistering heat, and the doc martened crowd surfers who periodically kicked me in the head.  I obsessively loved every moment of that concert, and when Pearl Jam made their final exit from the stage and the crowd receded, I stood there, staring at the stage with the goofy grin on my face I'd worn all day, sweaty and tired and unable to believe it was over.  Then, there was The Toadies at Austin City Limits Festival, circa 2002.  Again it was, September, this time right around my twenty-seventh (?) birthday.  I started the Toadies portion of the show up front with friends, and ended it up front by myself, as the crowd got to be too much for everyone else.  I was so close, I could see the sweaty pores on Todd Lewis' face.  It was a fabulous set, complete with all my favorites.  I hollered the words to  Tyler and Possum Kingdom along with the band and the rest of the crowd.  Then, when it was over, I dragged my spent body away from the stage, dirty, sweaty, missing an anklet, and entirely happy.
Most of the concerts of my youth weren't like that, though.  There was, for instance, the Lollapallooza sometime in my early twenties, where we spent all day outside in the blistering heat (What is it with outdoor music festivals in the heat of the summer??) anticipating the headliners, Sound Garden and Metallica.  While I was a fan of both bands, by the time Sound Garden took the stage, I'd been standing in a crowd of sweaty bodies pressed against each other for hours.  It seemed everyone around me was over six feet tall, and cut me off from any breeze as effectively as a dense forest.  I tried to be cool and tough and stick it out, but not too far into the set, I began to feel faint and see little stars at the edge of my vision.  Then I started feeling a little sick to my stomach, and there is nothing tough or cool about barfing all over your fellow concert-goers.  I was also unnerved by the idea of passing out in that crowd, as my ass had already been fondled several times while completely conscious.  So I stood on tiptoe, stretched my arm up above my head, and waved my hand at a security guard in the front isle.  I hollered, "I need out!"  The guard reached in, grabbed my wrist and pulled, as the mass of sweaty humanity pushed (None of them wanted to be vomited on, either) and I was free.  I walked to the outside, circled around back, got some water, and watched the rest of the show from the back.  I was so tired by that point, I was relieved when Metallica finished up and it was time to go home.  There were a lot of other concerts.  Many when I went just because it was the cool thing to do, but I was secretly counting the songs until we could emerge from the throngs and get back in the car where it was quiet, and I could sit down.
So why did I enjoy The Killers so much, even though I am ten years older and supposedly lacking twenty-something energy levels?  I mean, I like The Killers, but I don't worship them (or any band anymore, for that matter) like I did Pearl Jam or The Toadies.  Well, for one, I hadn't spent all day drinking Miller Lite in the Texas sun prior to the headliner coming onstage.  For two, I actually have more energy now, since my eating habits have improved, and I am no longer perpetually anemic.  But I think the primary reason is this:  I spent ninety percent of my time in my twenties doing whatever the hell I wanted to do.  Going to a music venue where I could do just that wasn't novel, especially since I went to lots of concerts.  Now, things are different.  I can count the number of concerts I've been to since becoming a mom five years ago on one hand.  I spend ninety percent of my time concerned with the happiness and welfare of the kiddos, always on alert for someone who needs a nap, a snack, a potty, or a hug.  And it is not only novel but absolutely freaking wonderful to be able to stand in the middle of a crowd at The Killers and jump up and down like an idiot or just stand still, if that's what I want to do, without having to be concerned about long it's been since Gage has been to the bathroom or how many hours it's been since Jack has eaten.  I love my kiddos so much sometimes I feel I could just eat them up, and I love that I spend so much time with them.  One thing I'm starting to realize, though, is they also enhance the time I spend without them.

Soap Operas and Bon-Bons

Recently, I read an article about how women, who have taken time off from paying work to raise children, should "lean into" their careers, meaning, they shouldn't feel guilty using child care or letting their children play on their own a bit while Mom tends to her payin' gig.  There were a ton of comments on the article, a lot of praise and sympathetic voices, but also a lot of angry women who felt the article denigrated the stay-at-home mom.  There were several self-righteous declarations stating how deciding to stay home with children was the best thing the commenter ever did, yadda, yadda, yadda.  I read all eighty comments and came away with this:  wow, do we parents ever feel guilty, no matter what our choices are.  If we work, we worry we're neglecting our children and not being the parents we should.  If we stay home, we worry we aren't using our intellectual talents or we are lazy, bon-bon eating soap opera addicts.

I could say I work outside of raising children, but that would be, while not entirely false, a bit misleading.  My father and I have a business we run out of my parents' house, which requires, at most three hours of my attention per week, and I take the kids with me.  For all practical purposes, I am a SAHM.  I have a ton of respect for parents with full or part-time paying jobs.  That is a lot to juggle.  I don't think they are any worse parents than I.  In fact, some parents who have paying gigs are way better at spending quality time with their kiddos than overwrought ones who stay home all day.  That being said, I'm going to address the stay-at-home parent guilt, because that is what I am most familiar with.  

One of the comments I read on the aforementioned article pointed out that some stay-at-home parents work really hard at making sure their job is really hard, like ridiculously over-the-top hard.  They run themselves ragged to play dates and soccer practices and mom and tot swim classes, because they have a need to prove to themselves they work just as hard, if not harder than their spouses or friends with paying jobs.  I know because I used to be kind of like this.  I felt guilty if I had a relaxing couple of hours with the kids, where I just watched them play in the back yard while I drank coffee and did my own thing.  We should be off learning Spanish, or how to knit, or climbing on colorful objects at some indoor play-place, while a teenage employee blows bubbles and talks in a loud, over-the-top, syrupy sweet voice!  I'd feel like my choice to stay home was somehow the lazy choice because I wasn't, at the moment, schlepping my kids all over town to organized activities,  exhausting myself.  That's kind of messed up.  The reason I wanted to stay home was because I love hanging out with kids.  I love watching them play and learn and grow, and not because I love strapping kids into car seats and listening to "Wheels on the Bus," on repeat, as I drive all over town.   And I didn't choose to stay home necessarily because I thought it would be better for them than being in child care.  I chose it because that's what I wanted to do.  That's what I knew would make me happy, so I feel very lucky to be able to do what I want.  It doesn't feel like sacrifice....well, not most of the time.  Sometimes, though,  having a glass of wine in the afternoon on the driveway with my neighbor while our kids play, more or less on their own, running between our two yards, I feel a twinge of guilt, like I should not be enjoying myself this much.  This staying home with kids stuff is supposed to be thankless, grueling work, with no respite!  But how ridiculous is it that I can't relax before nine PM without guilt?  I have a job.  That job is raising my kids, with whom I stay home (or at the park, or at a friend's house, or at the grocery store) all day.  I love my job - not one hundred percent of the time - but all in all it's a pretty sweet deal, and how lucky am I to be doing what I love.  I am not going to feel guilty for being content anymore.  It's the best thing I ever did....yadda, yadda yadda.