You’re A Bad Mother!
We live in a very judgmental society and internet has made
us more so. Sending a flaming condemnation about someone you don’t know is
easily done with just a touch of a button. My niece Amy writes a blog about
living in the country with a brood of children. Being a conscientious mother, and
concerned with nutrition she whips up daily smoothies, and being human sometimes
things go amiss, which makes one of the best stories ever! Go here
to read it for yourself. After
posting her blog she got some very strong comments, on the order of “You are
the worst mother ever.” Before we start throwing stones, consider, we are all
bad parents.
If you work hard long
hours to provide for your children then you are a bad mother because they
really need your time, not the physical things.
If you spend all of
your waking hours cooking and cleaning and caring for your children then
you are a bad mother. How will they ever learn to do for themselves? Will they be
momma’s boys and girls who expect everyone and everything to be focused on
them? Will they still be living in your basement at age forty-two?
If you are a
peacemaker and help your child resolve conflict or make sure everything is
always fair in their dealings with friends and siblings then you are a bad
mother as all of your hovering will never prepare them for a world that is
unfair, has bullies, and cares as much about their feelings as a lion does about
a zebra’s.
If you buy your
children fun toys then you are spoiling them.
If you don’t buy your
children fun toys then you are neglecting them.
You cannot win. We
are all bad mothers and fathers. Just ask the kids, they will tell you.
My father was one of nine children raised by a stepmother.
She was married to my grandfather for six months or so when he died, leaving
her three months pregnant and with eight children. They lived in a two bedroom
home with a converted “Sleeping Porch”. It was heated by a wood/coal burning
stove in the kitchen. Oh, and it was in the Depression. He recalled at age twelve everything he owned he had
bought himself with money he earned hoeing sugar beets. Was she a bad mother? Neglectful?
Aunts and uncles probably thought so. They were willing to farm out the kids
and provide for them. Eunice prayerfully considered the options and followed
the spirit.
We all make mistakes. Out of those mistakes our children
learn. God is perfect. He has perfect genes, he lives in a perfect world, and
1/3 of his children rebelled. Eunice looks pretty good compared to that
statistic. (Yes, did I just presume to judge God? I must be a bad mother, er father.)
My mother had six children and, really, two lives. In one life she
was fun, active, involved. And the other she was sick, tired, depressed and
drug addicted. Oh, the addiction was for pain pills, they give you those when you
have cancer. It killed her after a decade or so, the cancer, not the pills. I suppose there could have been better outcomes, but all of my siblings
learned to wash dishes and clothes, clean bathrooms, mow lawns, make decisions,
etc. She gave them the best she had and then some.
Was she a bad mother? I hope so; it is easier to learn from
other’s mistakes than from your own. I learned a healthy fear of pain meds. Last
surgery I had, I used eight pills out of 30. Well done, Mom. Your example
saved me. I learned there are times not to drive but just hand over the keys. I learned to do the damn dishes, even when it is not my turn. I
learned hundreds of other little things from my mother's failures. I also learned
from her successes, but the failures make better stories.
Mom would not have thought she was a good mother. She died
when I was twenty-four. I’m sure she felt her work was half done. She was
wrong. She did a great job and left the rest for us to do. If you are not a
success at twenty-one perhaps it is your parents’ fault. If you are not a
success at forty-two you have only yourself to blame. I try not to judge, but I
still do. I try to remember the Savior telling us “Let he who is without sin
cast the first stone.” I tell myself I can’t judge others: it took us six years
to potty train my son, I've watched a waffle iron fall on my daughter's head and I
once tossed a folded up tent at her head. I've seen my son put his hand into the
lawnmower I was running. I have been lucky enough to have only funny stories to
tell instead of tragedies to mourn. I’ll take the failures and the successes
with thanks to God for the chance to play the game.
