Mother of the Year, Lifetime Achievement

Clearly, my life is no thrill-a-minute, full-of-wonder daily experience. I just went two weeks without any inspiration — nothing — to write about.
But then, out of nowhere, or so it seems, my mothering instincts fall short and lo and behold we've got writing fodder.
For starters, I learned yesterday that a friend puts stickers on baggies in her young daughters' lunches to promote healthy eating habits.
Me? I always thought "Eat the damn carrots or no dessert!" worked pretty well.
What am I? A mother of four? And yet, my capacity to screw up can be astounding.
I thought our 11-year-old was capable of self-supervising her homework after a week-long vacation. Failing to cross-check her claims, I sanctioned a few episodes of Hannah Montana and an hour of playing Webkinz on the computer.
Two days later, she reported that she had been so busy catching up on her homework, she didn't have time to study for a science test at any point during the weekend.
"So, Mommy," she explained, "I got an F."
I gave myself an F for parental involvement, or the lack thereof.
I also should have known better when, on an impulse, I caved into the 13-year-old's request for a flashy, new water bottle as a reward for her daily running efforts. Since my usual answer is "no," I thought I'd try "yes" for a change.
She was excited and motivated. I felt warm, fuzzy and a bit smug in my all-loving, all-knowing mother mode ... until hours later, when I actually read the inspirational statements printed on the bottle.
In addition to such nice thoughts as "Breathe deeply and appreciate the moment," "Your outlook on life is a direct reflection on how much you like yourself" and "Friends are more important than money," there was this:
"Children are the orgasm of life. Just like you did not know what an orgasm was before you had one, nature does not let you know how great children are until you actually have them."
Yikes. After 19 years of parenting, you might think I had explored all potential lapses of judgment. Yet, here I was, wading in over my head into the unchartered waters of not sex, but sexuality. Note to self — thoroughly read all items prior to purchase.
In hindsight, it sounds bad, but I actually weighed my options — point out the problem and suffer the embarrassment of talking about orgasms with a 7th grader or keep my mouth shut and let her deal with the fallout when her friends check out the bottle.
I sucked it up and broached the issue as delicately as possible with as few words as possible, mumbling something about something inappropriate. Then, I bought her another bottle with only one, completely safe comment on it: Green is the new black.
Hmmm. Wonder what adventures in motherhood await next week.

Thought for the day

Blizzards to the West, flooding North, tornadoes South, global financial ruin, wars, famine — you name it, we've got problems.
And yet, amazingly, there is still time and energy to waste on the crazy woman the press has dubbed Octomom.
OK, sure, I am part of the problem. I actually viewed the CNN web page video report headlined, "Nurse: Octuplet mom fed babes for show."
Clearly, the only ones who should be watching Octomom are the authorities at Child Services. As for the three CNN news anchors and Dr. Phil ... I hear they need sandbag volunteers in Fargo.
But, just to bring you up to speed, in case you missed the vapid details of what our news outlets deem worthy of attention, here is the latest:
Octomom — the single mother of 14, the last eight of whom were birthed as octuplets — is in a new home (somehow, I missed that event), with her kids, and until recently, with the help of nurses provided free of charge by the organization Angels in Waiting.
The latest news surge came after Octomom fired the nurses. She says they seized control of her house and her babies.
Meanwhile, the nurses filed charges with Child Services on several counts, including that Octomom is failing to adhere to such basic motherhood standards as feeding her children.
According to the claims, Octomom only sought to feed her babies when cameras were present to record the moment. Otherwise, she left the mundane task to the nurses.
There is so much sad, disturbing and wrong about this story, it's hard to know where to begin and chances are nothing has been left undiscussed.
Still, I get this sick feeling that somewhere between Octomom, her lawyers and media handlers, the nurses and their lawyers, Child Services, and the media, there are eight tiny babies and their six older siblings who face long odds of experiencing a childhood that even remotely resembles normalcy.

Mother of the Year

I know we're only two and a half months into 2009, but ladies, put away the cookie sheets, park the minivan and forget about Mother of the Year.
This year, that coveted, much sought after award is mine ... all mine. And, honestly, I wasn't even trying.
It's been nothing like past years, when in moments of medical brilliance, I've ignored all signs that ultimately led to raging ear or urinary track infections, outbreaks of shingles and pink eye, and an allergic reaction to sulfa drugs.
Nope, for 2008-09, I've been responsible and vigilant, working all angles of preventative health care, from flu shots to dentist visits, healthy eating and exercising regularly. The worst we've suffered in this worst-of-all winters has been a few bouts of stuffed noses and mild coughing. No illness a few overdoses of Nyquil couldn't cure.
Consequently, it didn't seem particularly alarming when Child #3 started a subtle, yet constant whine about not being able to see.
Occasionally, she'd cite such complaints as her glasses didn't work, someone else's glasses worked better and sitting in the front row didn't help. And, I do recall some mention of headaches.
Now, in hindsight, these issues may have demanded more serious attention and prompt action than I offered. But, in my defense, she does tend toward the dramatic end of the spectrum.
In the interest of full disclosure, however, I should admit that it took about a year for me to accept that, maybe, her older brother truly was seeing double, which only took nine months of vision therapy to fix.
Still, it seemed reasonable at the time to do what I often do at the first whine — tell 'em to suck it up and hang tough. After all, if the skin tone is good, the eyes are clear and the appetite strong, what can be so drastically wrong?
Well, apparently, sometimes they really can't see.
After two months of fielding her complaints, I finally made an appointment with the eye doctor.
Somehow — oops — two and a half years had passed since her last visit. In that time, one eye worsened by five lenses and the other by three. And, no, she hadn't kept up with those eye exercises.
To ease any permanent scarring from my maternal incompetence, I ignored all sound financial judgment and let her pick the frames she wanted. Kate Spade? Two hundred dollars? Not a problem.
But, my feel-good moment was fleeting. In its place, all I could feel was a suffocating sense of guilt over having ignored my poor, blind child.
As we drove away from the office, she started screaming with excitement: "Omigosh! Look! I can read that sign! Fourth Street! And that one! No parking! Omigosh! Omigosh! This is so weird!"
Once at home, she found a new thrill everywhere she looked.
"Mom!" she squealed, standing on the stairs. "I can see the time on the clock from here!"
Objects had defined lines. The picture on the television was clear. It was as if she could see for the first time.
Oh my gosh, indeed.
If I was any kind of stellar example of motherhood, a shining beacon in the sea of maternalism, I suppose I would take a vow right now to honor and listen to my children from this point forward.
But, I'm thinking, what fun would that be?