Mother of "those" kids

When I gave birth to my now 11 year old son, I was a young, ambitious career woman, well on my way to professional stardom.  I never envisioned myself as a SAHM mother, and was always amazed at the women who "gave up their lives" for their children.  I had a sitter, and she managed the potty training, the bathing, the teaching of manners, for the most part, and the preparation and feeding of all meals.  All I had to do was get him there and pick him up.  If I went to the playground with my child, it was rarely, and never for too long.  Luckily, my son still loves me, appreciates me, and is affectionate towards me, despite my lack of involvement in his early years.

Fast forward to today.  I have essentially started over.  Giving birth to one son 3 years ago, and then another (surprise, surprise!) only 14 months later.  I vowed to become a better, more involved mother, and was fortunate enough to have the opportunity to stay home once I realized that working as I did, and wanting to be involved as I did, would not work well together.

So I ventured into the world of "stay-home-mom-dom", and almost immediately felt the sense that I had no idea of what I was doing and if what I was doing was right. I was, however, excited about the prospects of meeting other SAHP and bonding with them over discussions of potty training, tantrums, picky food habits, etc.

I was, and often still am, the "disorganized parent". But I only realized this upon watching other parents at work in the playground. I am the parent who didn't pack the snack, or forgot the diapers, or ran out of wipes, or didn't bring toys for her boys to play with.

And I would always watch in amazement how other parental-pros would not only have all the essential supplies, having predicted their child's every whim ahead of time, but also having packed every necessary toy, every nutriously organic snack, and every clothing item to replace the one that would inevitably become soiled.

The mothers looked nice too. Unlike me, their clothes weren't wrinkled or stained, or sweaty (since I often like to go for a short run before stopping into the playground), their hair wasn't carelessly made up into a knot-ridden bun, and though I suspected that they were as exhausted as I was, they managed to look cool, calm, and relaxed, at ease with their responsibilities and experienced in their efforts.

I was just happy to have made it there. I know that it is important for my kids to interact with others in order to develop their social skills, or so I read somewhere, and I needed to get them out of our small apartment so that they could release some of that intense "boy energy" they have.

What I didn't factor in, was how much bigger and louder my boys are from other kids their age, and how the physical perception of them being much older would cause parents of smaller kids of the same age to become overly protective of their own as my child approached them, or cause them to speak to my child in an irritated manner if he ran by too fast next to their comparatively peanut size 2 or 3 year old.

I would often have to explain, "he's only 3 (or 2)" to parents who freely reprimanded my 2 or 3 year old, who they assumed was a 4 or 6 year old, for, well, acting like a 3 or 2 year old, to which the standard reply would be "Oh, wow. He's big for his age.", as opposed to, "Oh wow, I'm sorry for being abrupt with your child."

I have heard it all: "Your children need to be taught some manners." "Excuse me kid, don't run so close to my child!" "Hey! Watch it kid!" "Wow, you have your hands full." And on and on...

It didn't take long before the visits to the park (filled with the various parental cliques made up of those who knew each other from day care, or French class, or the Perfect Children/Perfect Parent club) became more stressful and annoying than enjoyable and relaxing. I began to criticize my kids: "They are so aggressive." "They act like brutes." "They are too loud, too big, too active, too much!" And I believed those parents who made me feel that my kids were just not acceptable, not worthy, not normal, even though they didn't know about the hours we spent teaching them to say "sorry" or "thank you" or "please". Or how we often would be amazed at how insightful, articulate, curious, sensitive, and considerate they are.

I took my sons to the doctor recently, and full of insecurity and doubt due to the bombardment of judgemental glares and cold shoulders in the playground, I asked my doctor if my kids were overweight. After weighing them in, and measuring them up, and studying their growth charts from now to day one, the doctor turned to me and said:

"You have healthy, big, strong boys."

"Yes, doctor, I know, but...are they, you know...growing normally?"

"Do you have any health concerns?  Has something been wrong?"

"Well, no.  It's just they are too big.  Too strong.  Too much."

The doctor looked at me, with a smile and sincere sweetness in his eyes and said,

"Well, your 3 year old is as a tall as a 5 year old boy, and as heavy as an 8 year old girl. And with this information alone, I can only imagine that you must have a very difficult time at the playgrounds."

It was as if, for the first time, someone really understood my life.

"Your boys, all of them, are over the charts in both weight and growth. But, their history has always been so and they show no signs of obesity or unhealthy habits. No, they are healthy and fine. They are just, well, big boys who act their age, unknowing of their own strength and size. I would be looking at football interests. They would all do very, very well."

And I watched as my little ones carried a very articulate conversation with him, with my 3 year old describing various ailments he believed he had, and how they shared and played quietly and were sweet and polite and friendly to everyone who took the time to greet them and engage them and smile at them. And I was proud.

What awesome boys I have! They are smart, funny, and so, so sweet. I wasted my first few months home with them on worrying about what other people thought of them, and of me. And I am NOT the perfect parent. I still forget something or another when we exit our apartment, I still can't manage to keep my shirt clean throughout the day, and I still can't keep my boys from controlling their "boy energy". But I love it this way. Because although I spend my days uninvited to playdates, un-greeted by parents, and un-included in the Perfect Children/Perfect Parent club, I get to use my time to be a mom, a great mom at that, to three of the greatest kids any parent good ever ask for.

And I couldn't be happier.

Original NYC Moms Blog Post.