Doubting Momma

It doesn't take much these days for me to doubt everything I've done as a mother over the past twenty-four years. There are times when I question every instinct I've ever had; times I feel overpowering regret over choices I made; times I think maybe I wasn't such a great mother after all.

When you see your kids struggling to find their way, you start wondering what your participation in their troubles might be. Were you tough enough? Did you have a balance of discipline and tenderness? Did you encourage them on the road to success and comfort them during moments of failure? Did you shelter them too much from life's disappointments? Right now, I'm doubting it all.

The catalyst for my current bout of insecurities is the family my daughter is working for. They don't allow their four-year old twins to watch any TV, the toddlers have chores to do every day, and before bed, they contemplate the ups and downs of their day. They eat meals and snacks at pre-determined times and nap at 1:15 every day. Not exactly the world I created for my kids. At that age, they woke whenever the spirit moved them, they ate snacks in their carseats as I lugged them all over the northwest suburbs and got to bed before midnight. I thought I was being a cool mom. I thought I was making them flexible. Was I just being lazy? Was I really making them undisciplined?

God knows I'd go back and change a few things if I could. But where's the guarantee that my kids would be struggling less if I jumped into that time machine? And who's to say what challenges await those adorable four year-olds (or their "perfect" parents)? There's a million and one ways to screw up your kids. With luck, you love them enough to overcome your mistakes.

So, at this point, I'll just have to take comfort in hearing my daughter reassure me that I was a great mom, that she wouldn't trade me for anyone, especially one who wouldn't let her watch a cartoon once in awhile. If she feels that way, I can't have done everything wrong.

Where Are We Going?

Every year Money magazine has an article detailing the best places to live in America. I look forward to reading this issue each summer, hoping that some detail mentioned will be the catalyst to propel me to finally decide on my next (and hopefully last) zip code. Number one this year is Louisville, Colorado. Never heard of it but it looks nice enough; beautiful scenery, reasonable housing, strong economy. The town looks like something out of 1950s America, with a charming historic district and smiling children cuddled with their parents on a picnic blanket. It might be a contender except for one thing - winter.

I don't know where I want to eventually relocate but I'm pretty sure it won't be anywhere with little white flakes falling from the sky. Living an entire life in the Chicago area (with a couple of detours to England and Germany) had made me leery of settling anywhere with the potential of major snowfalls. I've definitely had it with winters that last for six months, white-knuckle driving and cold that takes your breath away. So I guess I'm out of luck hoping that the Money picks would help guide me. Nine out of the top ten are north of the Mason/Dixon line.

So the search goes on. Maybe I'll stumble across that perfect place with low taxes, warm temperatures and beautiful scenery. Maybe next year's list will uncover a hidden gem that moves me to hammer the "for sale" sign in my front yard. Maybe I'll sell my book or win the lottery so I can live half the year in a Tuscan villa and half the year here in the Midwest, close to family.

Stop laughing. A girl can dream, can't she?

Final Sale

I believe in recycling. I think all of us should do our part to protect the environment, reuse as much as possible and try our hardest not to waste resources. So, here's my promise. I vow to recycle everything I can, shop resale stores, buy from local farmers, and turn off water while I'm brushing my teeth. I promise to do all these things in exchange for just one thing in return. Please, please, please do not make me EVER have another garage sale.

When my kids were little, I was a garage sale nut. Most Thursday or Friday mornings from May until September would find me hunting for treasures on some stranger's driveway. I purchased ninety percent of my kids' clothes and a healthy amount of all the other stuff that filled their rooms from neighborhood treasure hunts. When they had outgrown their Osh Kosh overalls and Carter's sleepers, I would gather all my bargains and resell them for what (or sometimes even more than) I paid for them. But as much as I loved the first part of the equation, I grew to hate the second. All the preparation - the washing, sorting, tagging, hanging was bad enough but it was the haggling, greedy, unreasonable, sticker-switching patrons of these bargain fests that finally did me in. A couple of hundred dollars was not worth two days of sitting in a lawn chair dealing with any of them. I vowed to pack up all my future goodies and donate them to some worthy charity in return for a nice tax deduction. That plan worked for almost twenty years.

This past weekend I was (nicely) coerced into hosting a garage sale with my mom and sister. C'mon, they said. It'll be fun. We'll clean out our basements and make a few bucks. I knew what I was getting into but I thought, hey, I'll get rid of some stuff and spend a couple of days hanging out with my family. How bad could it be?

The good news first. We had great weather. Two sunny days in the eighties. We also had fairly steady crowds, a few of which even paid the price on the sticker. But the rest? The devious, penny-pinching zealots that I so hated dealing with? Oh, they were out in full force, confirming everything I always hated about letting complete strangers ravage through my personal (if unwanted) belongings. We even had one woman who aggravated me so much with her guerrilla tactics that I would have ran the items over with my SUV rather than let her have them.

So, what did I learn from all of this? Well, I have a great mom and sister that I enjoyed spending two exhausting days with. I also learned that there are crazy people who are willing to humiliate themselves over a quarter. But, the most important lesson I learned is that there are easier, much easier ways to earn $66.75.

Now that I've packed up what went unsold, I'm off to where it should have gone in the first place, the donation box at the Goodwill store. I promise all you wonderful charitable organizations who sort through everyone's junk I will not to be tempted by the dark side again. But, if I am, I've instructed my husband to slap some sense into me. Just remind me of that obnoxious woman who wanted that evening purse for fifty cents. That ought to do it.

To Speak or Not to Speak

One of the hardest things about having your grown child still living at home is how often you have to bite your tongue. Well, how often you have to at least try. Hearing parts of emotional phone conversations, seeing late night comings and goings, and observing questionable behavior without commenting is something I've discovered I'm not particularly good at. After butting my nose into my kids' business for two decades, it's asking a lot to turn off such a finely honed worrying machine. And while there are some wonderful aspects to being the parent of twenty-somethings, assuming the role of silent, yet emotionally invested, spectator isn't one of them.

I've found that twenty-four hours is about my limit. That's about all I can stand before I break down and ask that question that I probably shouldn't or offer that wise but totally unsolicited advice. Amazingly enough, it doesn't usually go well after that. My daughter ramps up the 'you're not the boss of me' attitude and I lapse into the disappointed parent incapable of keeping my mouth shut, even when I know I'm about to make matters worse. The funny thing is, in my rational moments, I know she's just trying to assert herself. I know she's trying to figure it out. Along the way, I know she's going to make choices I'm not crazy about. I also know that it's going to get a whole lot easier for both of us when she's not making them right in front of me.

Call Me

From the beginning, communicating with my daughter was a piece of cake. She shared her thoughts with me. She came to me for advice. She called me when she had good news to report or bad break-ups to get through. Sometimes she confided more than I wanted to know but my discomfort was a small price to pay. It felt good to be in the loop, to be a part of her life.

I only wish I had the opportunity to experience that connection with my son.

I never thought I'd enjoy having a boy as much as I did. A frightening combination of daring and energy, he kept me on my toes and taught me things I never knew I wanted to know. We spent hours building massive Lego starships. We constructed medieval villages out of hundreds of plastic pieces and filled them with tiny warriors on horses. We read books about dinosaurs, airplane engines and baseball. We laughed at Mad-Libs and silly songs he made up on the spot. He was a lot of fun but there wasn't a whole lot of talking going on.

Now that he's moved out, I realize how much easier it is to make the break with a daughter. Girls pick up the phone. They make lunch dates. They ask you to go shopping. They don't swing by, grab something still lurking in their childhood closet and race back out to an engine still running in the driveway. They don't disappear for a week without some kind of contact. And they don't make a habit of ignoring voicemails for days at a time.

I know I shouldn't get worked up about my twenty-two year-old son's reluctance to hang out with his family. I know I shouldn't take it personally. Everyone tells me to relax. He's a guy. But maybe his lack of social skills (not to mention common courtesy) has nothing to do with being a guy. Maybe he just has a lot of growing up to do.

Who's Minding the Store?

Watching our political leaders wrangle over the debt ceiling bill reminded me of breaking up the stupid fights my kids used to have when they were little. You know, the ones that you stumbled into the middle of when it was just a barrage of he said, she said; he did, she did. All the parenting books say you should turn around, walk out of the room, and let them handle it. Looking back, I think my eight and ten year-olds did an infinitely better job of working things out than any of our esteemed leaders.

Like a lot of people, I was so disappointed in our legislators' behavior over the last two weeks that I finally broke down and sent off a scathing e-mail to my representative. I'm sure it never made its way to her desk but it did make me feel a little better. In it, I chastised her and her colleagues for wasting the nation's time and money debating what should be clear to anyone with an ounce of common sense. As we've tried to teach our children from day one (hopefully), don't spend what you don't have. When faced with lean times, tighten your belt and learn to live within your means. Just like there's only one real answer to weight loss - eat less, move more; there's only two ways to have more disposable income - find a way to make more and/or spend less.

Of course, if all else fails, you can do what our illustrious leaders tend to do - bury their heads in the sand and print more money. With an example like that, we parents don't stand a chance.