If My Kids Were My Employees They Would Have Been Gone Long Ago

(Originally published Plain Dealer Sunday Magazine 2001)

Awhile back, I spent an entire afternoon debating with another mom the merits of a recently installed gate latch at our local baby pool. This from someone who once maintained a color-coded home library of interesting Wall Street Journal articles. What has happened to me?

I've become a stay-at-home mom. And I need help. I was never cut out for this. I'm not like the average mom. It's no question we'd both go to the ends of the earth for our kids; I'd just have to stop and ask directions.

I'm a businesswoman, you see. A doer. A high-acheiver. And all the traits that made me fly in my other life -- pragmatic, structured, strategic thinker -- don't guarantee success in this World of Unpredictability.

Suddently, my home is my new work environment. My daily planner is crammed with everything from a tickler file of "potential babysitters" to a preliminary agenda for spring cleaning. How did this stuff become so important?

My mind is focused on the things over which I have some control. It's the unpredictable children things I can't organize. Come to think of it, if my kids were my employees, they would have been gone a long time ago.

My uncharted journey called Motherhood started with pregnancy. Not once did I get weepy at the sight of a onsie. I got weepy at the sight of a twosie -- as in when I was two sizes bigger. I chose sensible decor for my nurseries, styles that would grow with the children. You won't see a Pooh Bear mural in our house. And no Barbie light switches, either.

Other moms seem to have a whole box full of "mom" tools at their disposal. For one, they can quickly summon every emotion. They cry with joy at their child's first steps. I wonder about the extra wear and tear on the carpet. They run faster than Michael Johnson to assist in a skinned-knee situation. My motto is, "If you don't cry, I'll stand by."

Oh, and I don't have The Moves. I am always fumbling. For the car keys. For an Oreo lost in the crack of the car seat. My bag always flings to the right while my body flings to the left. Who knows where my child is in this equation? In fact, I once thought I'd lost my son for good. I frantically screamed his name as I ran throughout my older daughter's crowded ballet studio. And he was in my arms the entire time.

I'm not making this up. The other moms looked at me, bemused.

I just don't share the same interests as other moms. Before I had children, a friend who is a young mother told me my shopping priorities would happily change with kids. "You'll never walk into a store again just for yourself," she gushed. "You'll always walk to their department first."

Never happened. And I don't foresee it happening until my daughter and I are the same size. In fact, shopping for me has always been a grab-and-bag procedure, unlike other moms who look at it as a leisure sport. You won't see me aimlessly wandering about the mall with my designer double stroller.

Another black mark on my motherhood resume is that I don't play well. The problem is, I'm too goal-oriented. I've come close to writing a strategic course of action for a nature walk. My brow sweats if I can't duplicate the Lincoln Log home shown on the box. Playing with the Little Tykes dollhouse makes me wonder about my own home's peeling paint on the basement walls. And what color scheme would be good for the kids' teen years.

Okay, I know what you're thinking, especially you older parents: "Enjoy this time now. It goes by so quickly."

But I've come to realize the ironic part of toddlerhood, of which my children are members. The very characteristics of their ages make it almost impossible to sit back and enjoy. I did that once and found apple sauce mixed in with my Oil of Olay.

Good thing my first child is so responsibile. She keeps me on my toes. When she was two, I asked her to give her baby brother a particular object for which he was clamoring. She reminded me he could choke on it. She was correct.

By now, you must think I'm the emotionless Grinch of all parents. Worse than Donald Trump himself if he were to ditch doing deals for diapering. And you know what? I did too, for awhile. But then I stopped watching all those Nick at Nite Brady Bunch reruns. And I stopped wondering what was wrong with me and just accepted that this is how I was made. I even found a few Others like me. At least ones who would admit it publicly. You know who you are.

Most importantly, I look at my kids. They are simply God's gift to this planet. Though this job is the hardest one I've ever had by far, where else can one actually produce and develop a Human Being? My kids are turning out pretty neat. Come to think of it, if they were my employees, a reward system might be in order. But only if they first met some pre-established goals, of course.