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Fess Up
Confessions of an Imperfect Mom By Lisa Smartt
OK. I admit it. Sometimes I yell. Sometimes my kids don't brush their teeth. I've opened crackers in the grocery cart. I've served overly processed meat products with no vegetables more times than I want to admit. I've culled their Halloween candy for the "good" chocolate. I've forgotten school deadlines and misplaced library books. I've proudly organized my boys' toys into color-coded bins but, within days, found myself tossing Luke Skywalker in with Mr. Potato Head – and not even feeling guilty about it. I've made chore charts, which I later used for writing my grocery list. I never carry tissues in my purse. I've even been known to have my kids blow their noses on those brown sand-paperish towels in the Wal-Mart bathroom.
And speaking of Wal-Mart, I've had my share of disastrous mommy/son meltdowns there over the years. I think Wal-Mart should have special attendants available for moms of small children, don't you? I can just hear it over the loud speaker: "Emotional meltdown on aisle seven. Emotional meltdown on aisle seven. Weepy 36-year-old in need of psychological counseling. Three-year-old needs to be bodily removed from the vanilla wafers." It could work.
Ever read the signs in the Wal-Mart bathroom that discourage shoplifting by saying, "It's not a joke or a prank"? I think every Wal-Mart needs a large sign at the front of the store that reads: "If you're entering this retail facility with more than one child under the age of 4, think about what you're doing. Think about it long and hard. It's not a joke or a prank – it could end in serious disaster."
Of all the jobs I wanted to wildly succeed at, being a great mom was at the top of my list. There was only one problem. It was a job I couldn't master. It didn't help that I grew up in a generation of moms who read approximately 143.2 books on becoming a great parent. My dad says we're becoming more informed and less secure. I think he has a point.
I'm all for the
