Sunday, May 9, 2010

Because it is Mother's Day

Lately my mothering has fallen under the scrutiny of friends and neighbors, and since today is Mother's Day, I figured I would take this time to reflect on my parenting. I don't apologize for the parent I am because I don't feel I have anything to apologize for. I am far from the poster child for wonderful mothers, but like all the mom's out there, I do the best I can. Maybe I do yell at my kids too much sometimes, but anyone that spends a great deal of time with my very energetic boys usually feels the same way by the end of the day. I have a loud voice and it carries across miles, but I refuse to allow my kids to get away with murder because I fear that the neighbors might judge me. It is not my job to be my boys' friend or playmate. It is my job to raise them to be respectful, hardworking, productive members of society. At least that is the way I was raised. I see the mother's who spend their days entertaining their children. They plan out playdates and activities. I don't really do that. I was always taught to entertain myself and use my imagination as a child and I expect for my children to do the same. Like most kids these days, they have a bedroom full of toys that they rarely play with. I don't want them babysat by game stations and television. I want my kids to play games together, ride bikes, pretend to be cowboys or cops and robbers. I want them to know that not everything they do in life has to be organized or monitored by their mother. I want to be their parent and not their activities director. I watch plenty of families spend money that they don't have, dragging their kids from one festival to the next because it would be a "fun" thing to do. Those same kids are growing up not knowing the joy to be found getting lost in a book on a Sunday afternoon. I want them to get exhausted just running around and playing chase or riding bikes and pretending they are chasing the bad guys. I don't think that it is bad parenting to want your children to be independent, self-sufficient people. It is not bad parenting to teach your children how to do chores so they don't grow up not knowing how to clean up after themselves and how to seperate the whites and darks. It should never be seen as bad parenting to try and teach your kids respect for their elders and basic good manners. If caring more about how my children will turn out as people instead of having an agenda for their day and how to "entertain" them is bad parenting, then I will gladly take the title of bad parent. When your kids are still wanting you to do everything with them because they have no idea how to do things on their own, you are more than welcome to call this bad parent and ask me how to get them to grow up. Of course, I will probably laugh and say...maybe you should have just been the same kind of bad parent I was. My family doesn't have alot to leave in inheritance. We aren't rich people, but there is one picture that hangs on my mother's wall and I hope to inherit it one day. It is the following poem: "The Meanest Mother" I had the meanest mother in the whole world. While other kids ate candy for breakfast, I had to have cereal, eggs or toast. When others had cokes and candy for lunch, I had to eat a sandwich. As you can guess, my supper was different than the other kids' also. But at least, I wasn't alone in my sufferings. My sister and two brothers had the same mean mother as I did. My mother insisted upon knowing where we were at all times. You'd think we were on a chain gang. She had to know who our friends were and where we were going. She insisted if we said we'd be gone an hour, that we be gone one hour or less--not one hour and one minute. I am nearly ashamed to admit it, but she actually struck us. Not once, but each time we had a mind of our own and did as we pleased. That poor belt was used more on our seats than it was to hold up Daddy's pants. Can you imagine someone actualy hitting a child just because he disobeyed? Now you can begin to see how mean she really was. We had to wear clean clothes and take a bath. The other kids always wore their clothes for days. We reached the height of insults because she made our clothes herself, just to save money. Why, oh why, did we have to have a mother who made us feel different from our friends? The worst is yet to come. We had to be in bed by nine each night and up at eight the next morning. We couldn't sleep till noon like our friends. So while they slept-my mother actually had the nerve to break the child-labor law. She made us work. We had to wash dishes, make beds, learn to cook and all sorts of cruel things. I believe she laid awake at night thinking up mean things to do to us. She always insisted upon us telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, even if it killed us- and it nearly did. By the time we were teen-agers, she was much wiser, and our life became even more unbearable. None of this tooting the horn of a car for us to come running. She embarrassed us to no end by making our dates and friends come to the door to get us. If I spent the night with a girlfriend, can you imagine she checked on me to see if I were really there. I never had the chance to elope to Mexico. That is if I'd had a boyfriend to elope with. I forgot to mention, while my friends were dating at the mature age of 12 and 13, my old fashioned mother refused to let me date until the age of 15 and 16. Fifteen, that is, if you dated only to go to a school function. And that was maybe twice a year. Through the years, things didn't improve a bit. We could not lie in bed, "sick" like our friends did, and miss school. If our friends had a toe ache, a hang nail or serious ailment, they could stay home from school. Our marks in school had to be up to par. Our friends' report cards had beautiful colors on them, black for passing, red for failing. My mother being as different as she was, would settle for nothing less than ugly black marks. As the years rolled by, first one and then the other of us was put to shame. We were graduated from high school. With our mother behind us, talking, hitting and demanding respect, none of us was allowed the pleasure of being a drop-out. My mother was a complete failure as a mother. Out of four children, a couple of us attained some higher education. None of us have ever been arrested, divorced or beaten his mate. Each of my brothers served his time in the service of this country. And whom do we have to blame for the terrible way we turned out? You're right, our mean mother. Look at the things we missed. We never got to march in a protest parade, nor to take part in a riot, burn draft cards, and a million and one other things that our friends did. She forced us to grow up into God-fearing, educated, honest adults. Using this as a background, I am trying to raise my three children. I stand a little taller and I am filled with pride when my children call me mean. Because, you see, I thank God, He gave me the meanest mother in the whole world. written by Bobbie Pingaro (1967)

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