Lessons in Parenthood

          Mom was a busy woman; no one
disputed that. In between working nine hours
a day in a secretarial position she hated,
cleaning the house, and cooking dinner for
four ungrateful offspring, she had almost no
time to herself. What little private time she did
have, she almost always opted to devote to us
anyway.
          To outsiders, she was a suburban
Mother Teresa, terminally happy, a role model
for the new mothers that often dropped by with
their infants in the hopes of soaking up some
of her maternal wisdom.
          To us she was more than that, even;
our personal goddess never failed to amaze
us with her ability to solve any problem,
however big or small. Because her children's
ages spanned across a twelve-year range,
she had to be well-versed in infant babble as
well as adolescent slang. She had to divide
her attention equally among four, without ever
letting any of us think we were anything but her
top priority.
          She kissed a thousand boo-boos,
read a thousand stories, attended a thousand
school functions, and delivered a thousand
pep talks from the day my older brother was
born until the day my youngest brother left for
college.
          As her only daughter, I more than
anyone was awed by her prowess for raising
children, and vowed at an early age to do just
as well with my own children someday.
          When they arrived, twin girls first and
a bouncing baby boy three years later, I got off
to a respectable start. I took six months'
maternity leave with the girls and a full year
with my son, which made my ascent up the
career ladder a rocky one, but which my
husband and I agreed was well worth it. I quit
the book club I loved dearly, put an end to the
tradition of dinner and a movie twice a month
with my husband, and stopped having adult
company. Instead, I concentrated my every
energy on improving the kids' developing
minds and bolstering their self-images
through games and activities recommended
by the parenting books and magazines I read
religiously.
          We were all doing so well, and I was
duly perplexed when, on the eve of my
daughter's thirteenth birthday, she stomped
out of the kitchen yelling that she no longer
wanted the elaborate party we had planned for
her and her sister, and that she never wanted
to see me again.
          Wounded, I sat in the kitchen in dead
silence for several minutes, staring into a mug
of tepid coffee and hoping I could chalk the
outburst up to simple teenage angst,
something I supposed we could expect more
and more of. I fervently hoped so; it would hurt
too much to think that for all my sacrifices, as
hard as I'd tried to emulate my own mother's
parenting style, even one of my children didn't
appreciate my efforts.
          After all, she had to realize that I'd all
but eliminated every venue for fun in my life. I
had three children that were intelligent and
well-behaved, but no personal interests
outside of work, no time to myself, and
essentially no friends except my husband,
with whom I had only the kids in common.
          I realized in that moment that I wasn't
happy. Proud of my children, certainly, and a
good mother, but not happy.
          So my mother wasn't perfect after all.
She'd been the model parent in every other
way, but in this way had failed me. She'd
showed me how to live for my children, but
had somehow forgotten to teach me how to
live for myself.