On Taking a Year off to Write a Book

..... not.

But I have been thinking that if I took a year off to write a book on parenting, then I could justify putting all my children into full-time care (boarding school?! juvey hall?) and then I could blame someone else for the way that they turn out.

Parenting. They never gave us any information in those prenatal classes that we could actually use. No manual slid out with the placenta. And books? I've long since quit reading those. They just make me feel more guilty and more inadequate. In other words, I've been going with denial? Reckless optimism, riddled with guilty hopes that other people in their spheres of influence will fill in the cracks and crevices of my distractions, melancholies, absentmindedness It doesn't make any sense, but it's what I've got to work with for now.

How does an utterly flawed human being parent impressionable children? What's a mother to do- stuck with a head that tortures her endlessly with dips of melancholy and navel gazing, sadness and introspection? Not to mention the large dashes of fear and desire for control, masked by a perfectionism that goes disguised as a inability to make any decisions for fear of it being wrong, or impossible to implement or God forbid-- that it should cause friction, conflict, or disagreement. So, in an effort to keep the place happy and respectful, the tongue gets bitten and bitten until it begins to bleed in rants and exaggerations; and I hear myself bellowing: "Go ahead and kill each other!!! What do I care? You seem to want to fight and disrespect each other, and you've got your own consequences to live with. Just don't bleed on my good couch!!"

It's a wonder any of us turn out at all. My mother was brutally depressed throughout her menopausal time of life- directly after I was born the youngest of eight children. Her depression/menopause lasted for ten years. Ten years! Can we even fathom what it must have been like for her to have that household to operate, those children to feed, those gardens to tend, and all while her head felt like a foggy, grey, sad hole?

Yet, aside from being either crazy, or brilliant, or migrainey, or disordered, or addicted.... Her children turned out surprisingly well. Good citizens. Excellent employees/employers. Pleasant. Interesting. Ethical. Wise.

It's almost impossible not to see one's children as exensions of oneself. So when they are rude, or lazy, or unmotivated, or demanding, my heart twists. I feel panicked- I've not taught them well, because I've likely not taught them at all. I'm a stinky teacher. I'm an idealist with such high ideals that I can't even start because it is too overwhelming. Sometimes I write lists and goals, and even stick to them for a long while. That's how I got my children to clean up after dinner every night. My one crowning achievement as a mother. Wa-hoo.

But boy, oh boy, have we got a long way to go to turn out some decent citizens.
Maybe I'll hire a nanny so that I can sit alone somewhere and think about how to do that. But that would require living really tight on a budget, and that's another thing that I really, really suck at.

What about you? what is it that makes your head drop to your chest involuntarily and cause you to stare obsessively at your navel while your brain tries desperately to problem-solve? Because I happen to know that you are not perfect either, and it would really make me feel better to think about someone else's inadequasies for a little while. Indulge me.