Why I Won’t Be the Mom from A Christmas Story Anymore

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XmasStoryMy dad was pretty good in the husband and father department. He rocked, played, fed, got up during the night (for a really, really long time because I refused to use the bathroom in the middle of the night without company for longer than I care to admit), made my lunches, started the car on cold days so it would be warm when I left, bailed me out when I ran out of money, and set a generally good example of what it looks like to love and serve someone. If I’m making it sound like my mom sat around and did her nails, that’s not true either…she cooked and cleaned and listened and cared and worked super hard as well. They were a team; I can’t think of a time when I heard them arguing about the other not doing his or her share. When one got sick, the other stepped up…and vice versa when the shoe was on the other foot. If my dad wanted a drink, he got one and offered to grab one for my mom, too. She did the same. Naturally, since this was really the only family I closely observed, I assumed this was normal.
Then I got married.

I was so blinded by love, I suppose, that I didn’t really pay attention to the interactions in my new family until the vows were signed and the name was changed. Then, I couldn’t help but notice that when my new grandfather-in-law wanted to offer his grandchildren something to eat, he would yell, “Grandma, get up and get these kids some food.” And she got up and did just that. Every time. It seemed like I was the only one clenching my jaw in fury and horror; to every other witness, this was apparently normal behavior. It wasn’t just him, though. When my first child was born, there were comments that “the mom does all the hard work and the dad just gets to have fun with the kids” and “moms really have two jobs – the job outside the home and the responsibility of running the house. Oh well, they like to feel needed.” Um, what? Did I wake up on the set of Mad Men? And then I started noticing the not-really-an-apology for the behavior in my new family. “Well, he’s just a [insert family name here]…that’s just the way they are.”

I don’t think I need to tell you that this type of behavior is not exactly the secret to a happy marriage. While I’ve discovered in recent years that there’s a lot of men who come home from work and take naps and play on the computer and ask when dinner’s going to be ready, I can’t think of any woman who has said she’s thrilled to be married to one of them. Because really, if your marriage isn’t a partnership, it really isn’t much of a marriage at all.

I determined pretty quickly that my own boys – surname or not – were not going to behave like their extended family. So I set about parenting the way I remembered it from my family. I modeled hard work: I served food, I cleaned up, I sacrificed myself over and over again because I LOVE my children so much. I want them to feel cared for the way I did growing up. Besides, it is usually easier to just do things myself than it is to coach a toddler through the process, and I don’t really have time for the alternative. I BECAME the mom in A Christmas Story. You know, the one who hasn’t had a hot meal in ten years because every time her derriere hits the chair, someone asks for a refill of his water or his plate. And I was OK with that…because when you sign up to be a mom, you aren’t exactly looking to serve yourself.

But the other day, I realized something. My boys – now four and five – are expecting me to do everything for them. EVERYTHING.  If they’re watching a movie and don’t want to miss something, they want me to get them a glass of water. If they’re still hungry after the first course, they expect me to put my fork down and get up to make them another piece of toast. Right now. They view me as a vending machine made to do their bidding, not a mother who loves them. My servant’s heart has created my worst fear.

They are capable of getting their own water. Yes, the kitchen sink is too high so they have to go to the bathroom. And yes, they invariably spill the water on the way back to the dining room, which necessitates getting a towel from the drawer – and a rag towel, not one that I can actually use as a hand towel – and mopping up the spill, at which point they’ll need to return to the bathroom to get more water. It is a total pain, and often there are tears, but from here on out, they’re doing it. They can wait until I finish my meal to demand seconds, or they can get it themselves. And if they ask without a please, I will set a timer to tell them when they may ask again, politely. Not because I don’t love them, but because I want them to grow into men who see women as companions to be loved and cherished, not servants to wait on their every need. Truthfully, this feels really selfish to me, but it isn’t.

It is parenting with the future in mind.

I will still serve my kids. I’m not going to quit doing their laundry, although I’m thinking they can join me in putting it away. I’m not refusing to make their food, although they can join me in prepping it. I’ll still be there with them in the middle of the night and the pukes and the heartbreaks. I just won’t let them think that the world revolves around them…that the only thing a woman has to offer the world is the sweat of her brow. The world needs my boys to be good men with good character, and my daughter needs to know what she can expect from the man she marries. I want my children to know how to do things for themselves. I want them to have the satisfaction of being an independent adult. I think that starts by teaching them to get their own drink of water.

Am I right?


Cincinnati Moms Blog offers a special thank you to today’s guest blogger.

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