“Every Day Is Mother’s Day”. So said my principal in elementary school. Mother’s Day to most people translates into a day in America when moms get treated to breakfasts in bed, spa days with manis and pedis, and fun homemade cards colored with hearts and funny stick children smiling.
I always joke about lending out my cape to other mom’s when I see they are having a really accomplished day. More recently though I question what being a supermom really means. I know that I feel great when I manage to catch up on the laundry or clear the sinks of dirty dishes but my kids could care less which is obvious if we take a look into their rooms. So I guess what I truly am on those days is a decent housekeeper or at best mediocre. Being a supermom is subjective. Children are the judges and more often than not I fear it has nothing to do with the fact their clothes may smell like a fresh meadow or spring blossoms but whether we listened to their story about the mean teacher and the terrible homework assignment. Even if it takes them 10 minutes to get through a 3 minute retelling of their day because they use fillers, with lots of ‘um’s and ‘like’s – it can make us crazy but for mom’s like me with lots of patience, yeah, it can be trying sometimes as well, relax.
On days that I manage to tick off my list of things to do like shopping, cooking, dentist runs, laundry and cleaning it never fails. I reward myself by saying stupid stuff like: “Feeling like supermom!” or “Supermom strikes again!”, when in reality I just did a bunch of domestic stuff. No, I’m not diminishing those at all. When I was a stay-at-home mom with a part-time job (just so I didn’t go completely bonkers) I always told whomever would listen that it was by far the hardest job I had ever had. And I meant it.
Tonight, though I grumbled about it, I was to attend my 4th, in a week’s time, evening activity for one of my children. One night was the girls school singing competition, which was loud, held outdoors and got real chilly. My girl’s classes came in 3rd and 1st place so it was quite the squealers delight for the car ride home. There was the end of the year party for my 4-year-old son’s nursery class where my husband signed me up to bake a cake which is the WORST possible volunteer option, I mean we could have brought a bag of pretzels! True story, and thank you Duncan Hines. We sat on those teeny chairs for teeny tushies and the back of my knees got sweaty – so unpleasant, but at least he participated and even smiled a few times, and it was caught on film! Another night was the choral performance where my daughter’s face was covered by a big pink flower of the headband worn by the girl in front of her. That room was STIFLING and at the end I ran out and sent my daughter home with another mom so that I could go to the end of my business class – not a shining mom moment. I bailed on my eldest and made my husband attend an evening about family roots – phew – dodged that bullet of boredom.
Tonight, though I grumbled about it, was the dance competition. Only one daughter participated but another joined me to watch the performances. All the girls looked adorable. The music was entertaining and fun. The groups had quick turn around times and it was really a nice night out. I got to sit in the bleachers with lots of my friends that I’ve seen more this week than I’ve seen all year! What made it extra special though was while the judges were deciding the winners, music played and mothers and daughters and sisters and grandmothers were out on the ‘dance-floor’ giggling and swinging and spinning and swirling. I have no rhythm as mentioned previously and probably looked like a big idiot, but we had fun. We danced to Cotton Eye Joe, the Chicken Dance and a bunch of other things that basically I just jumped and clapped and did a few jazz-hands to make it look like I knew what I was doing. I dosey-doed with my 2 girls and we laughed.
My girls had big smiles. It was because I was there for them. I participated in what was important to them. Giving your children your time and attention is priceless. Am I Carol Brady? I do juggle everyone’s schedule and aim to send everyone out the door with clean clothing and brushed hairdos. But I have no Alice. Carol Brady was Carol Brady because she had an Alice. Then again, Alice is not the mom, she is the hired help to keep things clean and orderly. Sure she gave out hugs too because well that’s just good writing. But it didn’t make her a supermom. Tonight I wore my cape proudly. I haven’t had it for a while, so I thank whomever borrowed it last for returning it just when I needed it.
I found these action figures online, if you can call them that. I wish I had these toys as a child. Both these women are supermoms, I’m just confused why the toy-makers would create curler-in-the-hair mom looking grumpy while she’s holding her screaming baby. We should be teaching our young daughters early on that motherhood is just as amazing as it is difficult so while the stereotype here depicts working mom is happy, I’d much rather see curler-hair-mom smiling with her crying baby and working-mom grumpy with a happy baby. The message should be that we are happy moms who love mothering, even though it’s difficult at times. You can take it or leave it, I don’t aim or ever wish to be anyone’s prototype for the perfect mother. We all make mistakes from time to time, like when the baby rolls off the bed, bonks their head because we forgot they started to roll or not to leave the diaper creme tube open within reach of chubby fingers and come back to a Desitin facial. True stories. (insert awkward smile here)