I’ve never known if it was how I was raised or a product of my degree from a liberal arts college; but I don’t believe in the theory that a book or magazine can tell me how to raise my child. Don’t get me wrong, I still read endless amounts of parenting magazines, I rip out the latest edition of, “10 Ways to Keep Your Child From Dying” with an intensity not seen since I went through labor. I just don’t buy into the idea that someone else can tell me how to raise my child.
This is why I’m a flawed mom. I read those and can find at least one time in which I tell myself, “Oh, you should stop doing that”. But my son is the most amazing child I’ve ever met. I’m not just saying that either. I do so many things wrong, I often find myself wondering if he should be in a science museum somewhere with a plaque at the bottom that reads, “Came from a mom who made too many mistakes.” I can see it now, him standing motionless with his big smile, big blue eyes and blonde Mohawk, just happy to be alive.
My husband and I like to try and take credit for it. The truth is I’m beginning to believe a lot more in nature than nurture. I got pregnant before Zach and I were officially married. We had Trysten when we were just 21. We were getting our college degrees and working and somehow made it work. All signs point to thousands of dollars of therapy in Trysten’s future, but for now he’s great and it has little to do with the kind of mom I am.
Where do we women get the idea that we have to have answers to everything? That there is a “DaVinci Code” for motherhood. Is there some random equation that will just make motherhood make sense? I find my single friends look to me for all the answers on motherhood and wifehood. I feel like a failure for not knowing them, I SHOULD know them shouldn’t I? But I find myself gufawing at all the mothers who seem to have the answers to everything. How could what they do for their Susie most assuredly work for my Trysten? Without the same DNA make up, there really is no telling what one parent’s go to method could do to another parent’s child.
I went into my son’s room this morning when he was saying good morning to Spiderman. I watched him read his books and play pretend games not seen in my imagination since I was that age. I realized then that it is entirely possible I learn more from him every day than he could learn from me. What does he learn from me? No apple juice on our new, white carpet; milk for dinner. And what do I get to learn from him? In our very own living room we have an entire baseball field with unlimited amounts of bats, balls, hats and gloves. That my husband is flawless in our child’s eyes and that I actually don’t look too bad in the outfit I’ve had for years. It turns out, me being a flawed mom, a mom who doesn’t have all the answers, will pay off in the end. It might just mean that my 2 year old can provide me with wisdom way beyond my years.