I have always hated unsolicited advice. In fact I despise the implication that I may not be doing a perfect job – regardless of the kinds of awful self-deprecation to which I expose myself in the privacy of my own head.
And advice about child rearing is the worst. I know that my children are spoilt brats who never have to do a thing for themselves, and I really don’t need other people to go rubbing it in. I get all indignant and console myself with the fact that, pampered though they are, they do all know how to use the stove and the washing machine; even how to find their own closet when it comes time to put some clean clothes away. Really, no one is going to starve or go naked when they leave home.
So, when Mothers Day passed without even a hint of thought or planning on the behalf of the progeny, it resulted in a dreadful epiphany – I have raised my children to be over-indulged and frankly hopeless (and let’s not even get started on their father!). You see, I thought you were supposed to teach by example, and I always lead a brilliant campaign to celebrate special events; thoughtful gifts, cakes and goodness knows what else. When I’m not spearheading the planning committee, guess what happens … not much of anything.
It seems there is a very fine line between being a devoted, caring mother and a doormat. I have, apparently landed somewhere distant of that line, so I’m having trouble spotting it right now.
I’m still somewhat ticked, so the kids have had a hard lesson this week in pitching in or else. I just hope I can make it last – I know from experience that playing the heavy eventually wears thin, and I have a tendency to resort to the more peaceful solution of ‘do-it-yourself’.
I have until the summer to whip them into shape, and then we’ll see what my birthday brings.