When I had my twins - 15 years ago - I think I was a pretty good mother.
I think I was like most new mothers, in that I did everything by the book. I kept them on a schedule, I burped them after each feeding, I gave them a bath nearly every single day, I put shoes and socks on their feet, I brushed their hair and put lovely pony-tails on the sides of their heads. I was a good mom.
The more kids I began to have, the farther and farther I began to stray from the "model mother" persona that I once resembled. Actually, it probably began to fade long before I actually gave birth to my son. The beginning of the downward spiral was - oh ... probably after about the first year after my twins were born.
So ... that means - if am going to be honest - that I have been a less than "model mother" for at least 15 years - giving myself credit for being exceptional for merely one year!
Yep - that sounds about right.
I have been very aware of this failing for many, many years. It bothers me, of course, and I often try to do better - but, I am just a mediocre mom in most regards. I yell - far too much! I complain - far too much! I set very high expectations - way too much! On some things - like school - I think I am pretty successful as a mother. And, in raising some pretty fun, loving and socially adept children - I have done well. But ... there are certainly some areas that I am miserable at and have failed pathetically. I am a mediocre mom. I know all this.
Yesterday, Alexis came over to where I was sitting on the couch and stood in front of me.
In her hand she held a banana.
I watched as she began eating this banana.
Suddenly ... I saw ... as she folded down the peel, the nastiest bruise on the side of the banana.
In my mind I thought, "Is she going to keep eating that yucky, bruised banana?"
She took another bite.
In my mind I thought, as I squinted my eyes and my stomach turned a flip, "Is she going to eat that yucky part of that banana?"
She took yet another bite.
In my mind I thought, "Should I tell her? Should I tell her?" and then I watched, through squinted eyelids (because I couldn't watch out-right or I felt like I surly might throw up), as she took a big bite - eating the yucky bruised part of the banana.
She stood in front of me and ate the whole banana - yucky, squishy, bruised parts and all.
I let her.
I never said a word.
I debated about telling her, but thought, "It won't kill her. If she likes the taste and the texture doesn't bother her - let her eat it. I wouldn't eat it, but it won't kill her. It shouldn't do anything to her, other than encourage astonishment from others if she ever does it around anyone outside of our house. That's okay - my sister has been known to eat boiled shrimp - shells and all (blech!) - Alexis will fit right in - as long as she always sits next to my sister. "
Being as Alexis is the 4th child - it occurred to me - while I watched her eat this banana - that I would have had a hard time eating - that I have never told that child about rotten fruit. Either that - or she chose to ignore this lesson and has decided to distinguish between those things she will eat and won't eat, on her own. I prefer to believe the latter.
This is just an example of how my mothering skills have seriously deteriorated over the years. Somewhere along the way, I stopped teaching the lesson about rotten fruit.
I'm certain there are many other lessons that I have failed to teach Alexis that I probably taught my first born children - because she is at the tail-end of our line of children and also because she has been stuck with me as her mother (*sigh*).
I hope she survives.
On the upside ... I guess with Alexis around, not much fruit will ever go to waste in our house. And ... when my kids eat boiled shrimp, I'll try to remind them to peel the shells off first. My poor sister - she didn't realize you weren't supposed to eat the shells until I told her (you should have seen my face when I saw her crunching on those shrimp and then how we laughed - HA!) - just this past summer - she's in her 40's. I wonder why our mother never told my poor sister to take off those shells? Maybe my poor mothering skills aren't my fault at all - maybe it's just a disease that has been passed down from generation to generation in our family. That's probably what happened. We're just defective or genetically challenged in the mothering department.