Mom Strong: The Mom I’m Not

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When I was five or six, I had just learned that candles are made from wax, and I had an epiphany. “Crayons are made of wax. If I can just melt my crayons, I can make my own super-pretty, colorful candle.” I needed a heat source, but I’d noticed that the light bulb was really hot when I turned it off at night. And I needed something to put the crayons in so that they wouldn’t melt all over the bulb, and wouldn’t you know, the plastic mug from my kiddie kitchen set fit perfectly right on top of the bulb. I figured I was pretty much a genius, and I couldn’t wait to show my beautiful candle to my mom.

MomImNotYou can see where this is going, right? I had the sense to take the wrappers off the crayons before I piled them into the plastic cup and flipped on the light. And then I waited. The good news? The crayons did melt. I have a vivid memory of all those pretty colors swirling together in the bottom of the cup. The bad news? Well, so did the cup. In fact, as the cup started oozing down the sides of the light bulb, it also started smoking and giving off an odor that I now realize is unique to melting plastic. I thought it might be wise to involve my mom before I called the fire department, so I casually hollered down the hall, “Mom? I think there might be a fire up here.” No big deal, right? Just a small fire. Inside the house. To say she came quickly would be an understatement. She dashed into the room and turned off the light. (Why didn’t I think of that?) I have a vivid memory of the light bulb, now cool, removed from the lamp with the melted cup and crayons hardened on the side, preserved to show my father when he got home. I don’t blame her.

You would think that would be enough to teach me a lesson, but no. I attempted candles again in college. There were no disasters in the making of the actual candles, but the potpourri I added for decoration caught fire dramatically when I tried to burn them. I also burned the better part of a poster when I tried to sear the edges with a lighter. Clearly fire is not my friend.

So when my friend found a Pinterest tutorial for making suncatchers by melting plastic pony beads in muffin tins, I read and re-read the instructions. Some people complained about the smell of melting plastic when they used the oven, and the gas grill turned out to be a better option. “Perfect,” I thought. “Someone made the mistakes for me.” Five dollars and seventy-five cents was going to yield perfect presents for the grandmothers. I was so excited to see the finished product.

I let the boys arrange the beads in the bottom of the muffin tins. I had envisioned my cuties putting in one bead at a time, carefully creating unique designs. In reality, they dumped the beads in, three-deep, and got upset when I told them they had to take some out. Beads kept escaping the tins and rolling for the edges of the table, and then Caleb knocked over the whole container, sending tiny plastic balls rolling toward every crack and crevice in the room. I might have lost it more than a little bit at that point and I’m convinced beads are the pine needles of spring. I’ll be finding them in ridiculous places for the next calendar year at least.

Finally, we arrived at one muffin tin with one layer of beads randomly scattered in the bottom of each circle. I fired up the grill, checked the temp, plopped the sheet on the grate, and headed inside the pick up the baby. I checked the beads at four minutes. Nothing was happening. I shut the lid and headed inside again. Two minutes later, I smelled something burning.

Thick, black smoke was pouring out the vents on the top of the grill. I lifted the lid, and flames curled out at me. I slammed it shut again, and the flames began to pour out the top. The coating on the outside of the grill curled up and turned to ash. I couldn’t even think. The kids were safe inside, so no one was breathing the fumes, but I had created an inferno just inches from my house. Fortunately, I remembered our fire safety training from elementary school, and I knew I had a brand-new box of baking soda in the kitchen. Good news, folks. That stuff really works. I turned off the burners, threw it on the top of the grill, steeled myself to open the lid and threw it on the muffin tin. Or rather, what was left of the muffin tin. The fire was gone. Within minutes, the smoke began to subside and I was able to turn off the propane. And then I got a good look at what I’d done.

I should have taken a picture of the pan. There was nothing left of the beads; just charred scars on the inside and outside of the pan. As soon as it was cool, I threw it away. I still haven’t brought myself to inspect the scope of the damage to the grill; we use it ALL.THE.TIME and I guess we’ll be learning to live without it.

I was bummed. I still am. My husband was, um, less than thrilled, too. I can’t blame him. I mean, this is apparently a common preschool craft. My friend made them and they turned out great. Grill-gate put me in a funk that lasted through most of Mother’s Day. I told myself I don’t deserve to be a stay-at-home mom; I can’t even craft! What kind of mom can’t craft?

Simon 2014_For Web-9707But here’s the thing. I don’t craft, but I do cook. With my kids. When they grow up, they’ll know how to make just about everything from scratch. They’ll know how water and yeast and flour come together to make bread. They’ll know how to roll out a pie crust. They’ll be able to make almost perfect chocolate chip cookies. And that’s a good thing.

And I can quilt; every night, Caleb asks me to tuck him in under a layer of fabric and batting that I made just for him. And I read a mean bedtime story (or seventeen). I’m skilled at finding books that make their minds light up.

And while I’m definitely a work in project when it comes to patience, I am really good at apologizing, at explaining why I was wrong and what I’ll try to do differently next time. My kids should be stellar apologizers when they grow up because, well, they’ve seen a lot of it. They will accept that real people mess up, and they do the best they can to fix it when they do.

I know how to handle all three kids in public places. I can do the grocery with all three, without help. And only occasionally do I leave with my tail between my legs. The zoo, solo, with the kiddos? No problem. Museum? Got it. The only place I hesitate to take my brood is Kohl’s because everything about that store says “Let’s play hide and seek. Mommy’s IT!” Kohl’s takes years off my life. But Tower Park? We can do that.

I am good at unstructured play, at finding ways the boys can explore and play and create make-believe without my hovering intervention. Sometimes kids just need to figure things out on their own, which is why I give them kinetic sand and say, “Just keep the sand on the cookie sheet. I’ll be feeding the baby.” They can play that way for two hours, while I put together dinner and clean up the kitchen. And no, the sand does not stay on the cookie sheet. It is better than play-dough, but it is not neat and tidy. That marketing department did not test with actual kids. But I’ve also taught my five-year-old to use the mini-vaccum to clean it up. Mom for the win!

My kids go to bed knowing Mommy will be there if they have a night terror. Yes, I’ll be grumpy, but I’ll sit with them until it subsides. I will give them band-aids if they can prove blood was shed. I will blow farts on their boo-boos. I will hold their hand when they need me and make them try things on their own when they are ready. When they are scared, happy, sad, or hurt, they call for me.

I can’t craft, but I’m their mom, and that’s good enough.

If you are reading this and feeling a little bad because you don’t make quilts, please don’t! Definitely don’t go on Pinterest and create a disaster you didn’t want in the first place. Just buy a comforter. Order take out. Give Grandma flowers for Mother’s Day. Leave the kids with a friend when you go to the grocery. The best moms know their strengths, and they are wise enough to know what they should try to improve on and what to just skip. I obviously need to skip crafts that might catch on fire.

I am choosing to stop trying to be the mom that I’m not, and I’m going to put my effort into being the best mom that I am meant to be. Won’t you join me? And if you happen to be the mom who is good at crafts, would you like to have a play date?

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