Leaky Diapers, Kindergarten Gangs, Infected Tattoos, and Empty Nests

     What was I thinking when I had kids? No really, what was I thinking?

     Not that I regret having my girls. Just the opposite, in fact. They are the light of my life and they grew up way too fast. But it's amazing to me that a task so breathtakingly important as raising healthy, sane individuals who can fit nicely into society is left up to people with no training, no required skills, no background check, no resume, and no clue--people like me.

     Shouldn't I have had to at least fill out some kind of form, like:

     I, (fill in your name), understand that by having a child, I will be responsible for making sure that-
       
          1.  He/she is loved and cherished for the rest of his/her life no matter what, including during:  temper tantrums in the grocery store, colic, puberty, door slamming/I hate you phases, diaper leakage in public places, learning to drive a car, forgetting to put gas in said car, denting said car, learning of the word "NO," stomach flu and all related cleanup, and the "Can I sleep in your bed?" period.

          2.  He/she is neither a bully or bullied. I swear to teach my child that making someone else feel bad is not an acceptable way to make yourself feel good and shoving others in lockers, writing cruel things on their FB page, humiliating them in front of the class, or physically harming them just makes you a sucky, sucky, sucky human being who will eventually feel shame for your behavior, but have no way to go back and make amends. You will have to live with your guilt for the rest of your life which will eat at you like a flesh-eating disease. If my child is the victim of bullying, I promise to move heaven and earth to protect my child and teach him/her that violence against the bullies ends up hurting innocent people and isn't the answer.

          3.  He/she is well-fed (even if that means I have to learn to cook), never leaves for school in below freezing weather in shorts and flip-flops, keeps his/her piercings and tattoos clean and infection-free even if that means I have to suppress my shudders and clean them myself, learns to share before kindergarten to avoid potential lawsuits, and can communicate with other human beings without using a keyboard.

          4.  He/she is not named in a way that will guarantee a lifetime of teasing, misspellings, mispronunciations, and beat-downs. No exceptions will be made just because you are a celebrity and are trying for free publicity.

   
     If I want to drive a car, I have to fill out forms and take several tests. If I'm applying for a job, I have to have some skills, fill out an application, and give an interview. But if I want to raise a child, I can just wing it.

     I grew up in a loving, fairly stable home and I'd done some babysitting over the years. That's it. Those were my qualifications for bringing four humans into the world and being almost totally responsible for their physical, emotional, and mental growth. Would you hire me with that limited resume? I wouldn't.

     When new mothers panic, they are told, "You'll learn as you go along. Everyone does. Most of it will come naturally." Yikes. It's a wonder any babies survive our trial and error education. Books by experts help and many parents take advantage of them, but reading how to swim is quite different than being thrown in the deep end of the pool.

     I don't think anyone is ever truly prepared for the endless mess, the mountain of diapers, the sleep deprivation, the selflessness required, the utter exhaustion, and the guilt that no matter how much you are doing, you aren't doing enough.

     I didn't know beforehand how high the highs would be--the funny things they say that make you laugh out loud and smile for days--the smell of sunshine in their hair after a hard day of playing outside--watching their first step, first day of kindergarten, first date, and first day of college--pulling the blanket to their chin while they sleep--listening to them describe their day at school as a first-grader, fifth-grader, or senior--watching them laugh with friends and then look over their friends' heads to share a smile with you--hugs and kisses and grasping your finger as an infant--it all was so much sweeter than I expected it to be.

     But what really threw me for a loop was the worry. I didn't plan ahead for that. I didn't realize that it starts before they are even born and ends---never. I used to devour Stephen King's novels, but once I had my first daughter, I couldn't read them anymore and still don't. There were too many real-life horrors to protect her from. I couldn't add to them with fictional ones. Of course you know that you will always worry about your child's health and safety, but add in things like worrying that she's warm enough, isn't thirsty or hungry, makes friends and that those friends are good ones or if she can't find good ones then she at least has someone to sit with at lunch. Worrying that her new shoes are giving her a blister, that the tag on her onesie is rubbing a sore spot on her neck, or that the thong she had to have because everyone else is wearing them is . . . well, you figure it out.

     There is always something to worry about all day, every day, and even enough to keep you up at night. First you worry that no boy will ask her out and then you worry because one does. You worry that she is gaining too much weight and then when she loses some, you worry about eating disorders. You worry that she won't get good grades and then when she does, you worry that she is putting too much pressure on herself. You've protected and sheltered her and then you're supposed to stand by and watch as she walks into a classroom of tough-looking kindergarteners who could be in some sort of gang for all you know. Or gets into a car with a friend who has had her license for all of three minutes and might drive as fast and non-stop as she talks. Or walks out the door with a date before you've had a chance to slap a tracking unit on the bumper of his car.

     It's hard to turn off all that worry and let go, but let go I must. By next fall, I'll be a momma bird sitting in the proverbial empty nest. After blindly wading into motherhood twenty-seven years ago, I refuse to be left in the nest without a plan. I'm going to spend more time on my writing, travel, try lots of new recipes now that my finicky eater will be on a college cafeteria diet, and go on dates with my husband who has been waiting to claim my attention back for decades.

At least until I have some grandkids to spoil. You hear that, Herbie? You have me to yourself for at most a couple of years, so you'd better make the most of it.