So the other day I was feeling pretty awful about myself as a mom. Pulled in a million different directions, unable to truly concentrate on whatever it was I was doing. Feeling like a complete failure for not being able to seize the day, be completely and totally present in my children’s lives and hang on their every word.

Enter the big cloud of Mommy Guilt. Imagine something like Eyeore walking around with that big gray cloud over him, raining on him wherever he goes.

So when I was going through some old files, I found a small quiz I had given Emma when she was 5. It asked her to answer 21 questions about her mom: everything from mundane (how tall is your mom & how old is she) to ones that really made her think (what does she do to make you laugh, if she became famous what would it be for).

Her answers were so sweet & funny that I immediately felt better. I mean, she thinks I’m 29 years old and should be famous for being a world class gymnast. For the record, I’m nowhere near EITHER of those things. I don’t think I can even cartwheel properly anymore. She knows she’s loved because I tell her, and says that my favorite thing to do, in the whole wide world, is play with her.

Though she completely nailed me on question #12: What is your Mom not very good at. Her answer was that I really stink at playing house, and she’s right. I absolutely HATE playing house. I purposefully, evilly, make it as boring as possible so she’ll choose something else we can play together. I console myself that this can’t possibly cause permanent trauma, right?!?

As Ryan is now 5, I thought I’d give him the quiz, too, and his answers gave me just the shot in the arm I needed. Yes! I rock at making light saber noises and should become the Queen of Michigan!

So when you’re questioning your mommy skills to the elementary school set, let me recommend to you asking your children these questions. (And for the record, I re-gave it to Emma again at age 8, and her answers were different, but just as sweet.) Write the answers down exactly as they say them.

1. What is something mom always says to you?
2. What makes mom happy?
3. What makes mom sad?
4. How does your mom make you laugh?
5. What was your mom like as a child?
6. How old is your mom?
7. How tall is your mom?
8. What is her favorite thing to do?
9. What does your mom do when you’re not around?
10. If your mom becomes famous, what will it be for?
11. What is your mom really good at?
12. What is your mom not very good at?
13. What does your mom do for her job?
14. What is your mom’s favorite food?
15. What makes you proud of your mom?
16. If your mom were a cartoon character, who would she be?
17. What do you and your mom do together?
18. How are you and your mom the same?
19. How are you and your mom different?
20. Where is your mom’s favorite place to go?
21. How do you know your mom loves you?

Once you have the answers, put them in your pocket to chase away the rainy clouds of Mommy Guilt. It’s a great umbrella.

As I’ve mentioned repeatedly all over this wee corner of the world wide web, I dig being a girl. A lot.

But yesterday, not so much.

I was at work, minding my own damned business, when I was attacked. By my own insides. And they were pissed. My instinct? Move through the pain. As if I were in a friggin yoga class or something. So, I ever so slowly, got myself over to the bathroom. Because, as I tell my kids, if you have a belly ache, it usually goes away after you poop. Right? Yeah, bad call. Bad, bad call.

That set off all little gangsters armed with shards of glass who were camped out in the right side of my oh-so-bloated abdomen.

I couldn’t stand up straight. I couldn’t zip my pants. I couldn’t control the tears shooting down my face.

It hurt like a mofo.

Here’s the thing: it was 11am and I was at work.

I called my OB/GYN all set to blame my stupid IUD who, clearly gave the little gangsters inside me their marching orders. But, my OB passed me off to my internist (”sounds like appendicitis…or something…”). My internist passed me off to urgent care. Which is all well and good except that I was making these calls doubled over in pain and oh my God don’t put me on hold again and I’m crying at work you assholes and there’s no way in hell I can drive myself over to urgent care and who the hell is going to pick up my kids at 3 this needs to be resolved ASAP and jeezus! I’m standing up crying with my pants unzipped at work.

I called my husband. He left his job and came to save me. Immediately. Because he’s the awesomest.

12 pm: He took me directly to the ER. He held my hand while I screamed in pain, with my pants unzipped, sitting in a wheel chair, in the ER lobby, waiting for triage.

The little gangsters were waging a war. On my ovary.

I was forced to tell my story like 18 times to 18 different people: I’ve been bloated and farty since Tuesday no I’ve only had a cup of coffee and chocolate covered almonds to eat this morning yes they’re delicious and yes I have a UTI I mean no I have an IUD not a UTI the pain started at 11 am no I’m not allergic to any meds I know I should try to drink more water I don’t remember when my last period was wait it is 10 days ago PLEASE don’t touch me no I can’t lie back you moron, I’m doubled over in pain seriously you’re gonna screw up the IV? Ouch, c’mon really? That’s not where the damn needle goes, haven’t you done this before? Wait, no…pain…ahhhh.

I love morphine, don’t you?

Wait! Who’s gonna pick up my kids?

And after four hours of unpleasantness including a lovely enema, I was discharged with a script for percocet and a directive to call my OB/GYN. Because it wasn’t appendicitis, people. An ovarian cyst that I didn’t know I had blew up.

But I’m feeling much better now. And my kids were protected the whole time. They weren’t inconvenienced in the slightest. Blessed be babysitters with cars. And damn these girly parts!

I don’t know why they even bother to go out to dinner. You know them: the couples who sit, picking at their food, staring into space? Often at the best table, wearing their finest, they manage somehow to make all the other diners uncomfortable with their obvious lack of interest in one another. Mostly, they are of a “certain age.” I think these older couples just need a little nudge to get the dialogue flowing. A few good conversation starters, and even the least communicative duos might find themselves having a fascinating evening. I imagine them now, sipping their Old Fashioneds, and chatting gaily about topics like:

What will those crazy kids say next?

“Frank, did you know that a “wedgie” isn’t a kind of shoe? I think it has something to do with buttocks.”

Reality television

“Bernice, have you watched any of those new shows out? You know, the ones about real people? I hear that some of them have people dancing on tropical islands, and then a panel of British chefs vote and send the worst ones home. After that, they all have a great big scavenger hunt. I don’t understand why they are so popular. I find them quite confusing.”

The state of the economy

“Harold, you are just going to have to start eating stewed prunes with me every morning. The price of Metamucil has gone up ten cents in the past year! I don’t know what those drug companies are thinking—that we seniors are made of gold?”

Sports

“I don’t know how your brother plays golf with that truss on.”

Politics

“That Mitt Romney seems like such a wonderful, handsome young man. Really, Milton, he is such a family man! But do all Mormons put their dogs on the top of their cars? Or is that just a Romney family tradition?”

The internet

“Florence, are you familiar with Facepage and Twitler? They are very popular these days with the kids. They do that stuff on the internet. I got on the internet one time, at my niece’s house. She’s always on Googler. I think all of that is such a waste of time. Why do young people like typing so much? What’s wrong with the telephone?

Gossip

“Frank, did you hear that the Bensons have separated? Yes. They tried everything to stay together: rhumba lessons, skydiving, yoga, and even gourmet cooking classes. But Harvey got gout, and Gracie slipped a disc. So now they are divorcing…”

But I might just be barking up the wrong tree. Perhaps older couples don’t want to have conversations. Maybe Frank, Edna, Bernice, Milton, and Harold are all talked out. And the Bensons are obviously exhausted. Maybe “date nights” are overrated, once you hit a certain age.

There is a lot to be said for peace, quiet, and a nice shrimp cocktail.

I have a secret. Well, not so much a secret really, as much as the elephant in the room – you know, the thing that no one ever talks about. Actually, I think it might be your secret, too.

This whole mom thing? I’m completely winging it.

Yep. You heard me right. I didn’t go to school for this whole parenting gig. By any normal means of measurement, I came to motherhood a COMPLETE amateur. Imagine, if you will, interviewing someone for a job who has absolutely no specialized education in the field, nor any recent on-the-job experience (no, babysitting at 12 for cash to buy Guess jeans doesn’t count anymore) – and you’ve got the parenting resume of probably 95 percent of new moms.

I didn’t spend years studying medicine so I’d know how to comfort a colicky child, know exactly how to measure out the right amount of children’s ibuprofen (I think that stuff may have been scientifically proven to be the stickiest substance on earth), or know what to do when my children shove packing peanuts (Ryan) or raisins (Emma) up their nose.

No lion taming or cat herding experience on which to draw, so trying to get cranky toddlers to do my bidding was an exercise in frustration. Sorry, no advanced mathematics degree (not to mention the fact that story problems have never been my forte), so helping with homework is also homework for me.

I’m not a licensed psychologist or nutritionist, so knowing off-hand how to emotionally bolster a pre-tween who’s had a hard day while also providing a proper nutritional balance day in and day out isn’t immediately apparent to me. And I have absolutely no background as a professional referee, so I’m not precisely sure what the rule is on soccer flags, flag football flags and all those flags over the top of the swim lanes. (Though I do think I should get life credit for having to referee fights over whose turn it is to roll the dice first in the next game of “Clue.”)

So yep- the cat’s out of the bag. I am, 100 percent, completely and totally making this parenting thing up as I go along. But it’s kinda liberating when you realize that everyone else out there is doing it, too! And that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

I work hard at being a mom — I try to be the right kind of parent that each kid needs, read up on things that might help, etc. And I love those kids beyond anything my pre-child brain could even conceive of, which drives me to do better and be a better mom for them.

But when it comes down to the day-to-day “holy smokes, what do I do now??” moments? I’m taking a guess. It’s my best guess — a guess based on knowledge of my kids, my love for them and the desire to do what’s right and what they need (and, sometimes, Dr. Internet) — but it’s a guess all the same.

But shhhh! Don’t tell the kids. We’ll lose all our parenting cred if they find out!

I’m freaking out. See the whole turning five thing means all kinds of things I’m not ready for.

Namely kindergarten.

And while I know he’ll (my eldest son) be fine and make friends and learn cool new shit and get great progress reports, I am totally screwed. Because I have to figure out how to get my little one to pre-school, my big one to public school, and my own fat ass to my office.

By 8:15. (Hey, Work Life Flexibility. I’m Kami. I’ve friended you on Facebook, and yet, not much has changed between us…)

We already wake up at the butt-crack of dawn. I already benefit from my husband making their lunches so I can…er…shower. (That’s a blatant lie. I rarely shower in the mornings. Alright, jeez, you got me. I rarely shower. Shut up.) I have a PhD in Scheduling and Strategizing from the University of There’s Way Too Much Shit In My Brain, but for the life of me, I can’t figure this one out.

I’m stumped.

And then, there’s the whole After School Pick Up Debacle. Again with the two separate locations. And two separate sets of extended hours.

I’m not the only person on Earth who works and has small kids, right? And umm, don’t daycares exist so people can go to work? What’s with the bizarro hours? Some of the places in my area open at 9 and close at 2:30. Really. HOW EXACTLY IS THAT HELPFUL? And thanks, public schools, for your early dismissal Wednesdays, and your Teacher Workdays (yes, yes, as an educator I totally hold those days dear, but as a working mom? Not so much.) and your effing snow days…what free help do you have lined up to hang with my kids while I make the proverbial bacon? Hmm?

And just to prolong this rant, Hello, daycare? I’m paying you. A lot. Do you think you can maybe encourage your staff to like show up ON TIME? For instance, if you open at 7am, couldja, perhaps, ACTUALLY OPEN AT 7am? PRETTY PLEASE?!!!

By the way, socialized childcare? Consider me on the bandwagon. I’d also like to sign up as head cheerleader.

And thus, I’m freaking out. (For the record, it’s entirely possible that my freak-out is due in part to the fact that global warming is totally messing with my homeostasis. Here in New York, I actually saw a cherry blossom blossoming. AND IT’S THE MIDDLE OF THE FRIGGIN’ WINTER HERE IN THE NORTHEASTERN PORTION OF AMERICA!). But I prefer to blame childcare issues as I’ve already hexed my Seasonal Affective Disorder…

How do you do manage it? The childcare/school thing or this totally sci-fi meteorology? You choose. I’d love to hear your thoughts.

1. Was she married in the fifties? Then your mother in law used LARD. Lard is universally known to make all foods cooked with it or in it absolutely delicious. Yes, it will eventually kill you, but we know that NOW. He is still alive, and fondly remembers his mom’s crullers. You will never measure up with Crisco.
2. He had nothing to compare her to. All children think their mothers are good cooks. She made the best weenies and macaroni. All children love weenies and macaroni. The fact that YOUR mother made home made pasta with freshly grated parmesan has absolutely no bearing on the weenie discussion.
3. There is a common genre of food for children called “nursery food” in Britain, and “comfort food” over here. It consists of mashed things mixed with milk or sugar. Mashed potatoes. Mashed cooked apples with sugar and cinnamon. Mashed bananas with cream. These foods appeal to children, and are committed to memory, and then worshipped for the rest of said child’s life. Only mothers can make really fine comfort food. But his mother’s, although inferior to your mother’s, is what counts.
4. His mother and he have a really tight bond. There is something about mothers and sons. So you simply will never measure up in his mind to that paragon who fixed his lunch every day. We women usually have very ambivalent feelings about our mothers. So it is hard for us to understand that mother/son thing. Personally, I think his mother’s baloney sandwiches were on the dry side. Granted, by the time she offered to make me a sandwich, I had stolen her son. No wonder she stinted with the mayo…
5. At Thanksgiving, his mother made stuffing out of Pepperidge Farm Croutons and just mixed it with a little water. So he grew up thinking crunchy stuffing was the norm. His mother also didn’t like the idea of sticking her hand inside a bird cavity, so her stuffing never received the benefit of the turkey juices. Actually, think of this as a boon, because who wants to bother making delicious stuffing, when he’s happy with a few croutons with gravy?
6. His mother made fifteen kinds of Christmas/holiday goodies. (ditto the lard) They were made with crushed nuts that she shelled by hand, things like citrons, jam, and confectioner’s sugar. She stored them in assorted tins and served them throughout the holiday season. They were delicious. Forget this! You have a job and soccer practice! Concede, and get those cookies in the roll from the freezer case!
7. His mother made just about everything from scratch. She did this because Marie Callender and Bob Evans are in her age group (well, they may have died, actually), and so they hadn’t grown up to invent frozen entrees yet. We all know that Bob Evans mashed potatoes and breakfast sandwiches are heavenly, but for some reason, those words from scratch really appeal to husbands. Apparently, making things from scratch implies a fortitude and work ethic that we soccer moms just don’t seem to possess.
8. His mother wore aprons. She made them herself. They were pretty, had crocheted or lace edges, and they tied at her waist. Your mother in law never schlepped tomato sauce on her bosom. Nor did any of that lard plop onto her bodice, either. So she was not only a wonderful cook, but she was clean. You, on the other hand, need one of those Mario Batali sized aprons, to save your good yoga shirts from staining. I know. We modern women are slobby in the kitchen.
9. His mother and dad had a cocktail hour. I don’t know how they accomplished this one! Apparently, he and his siblings were locked up somewhere, or sent outside (where children could play without supervision and not be abducted), while your mother in law and her man sipped martinis and discussed his day at the office. You have to quickly slug down some of the Marsala before you pour it into the sauce for the chicken, and then get going! There are three soccer games tonight!
10. His mother grew her own vegetables and then made stuff like tomato juice, which she “put up” for the winter. She also made her own pickles. He has fond memories of her fig preserve. This is pure #$&**t. I have had her tomato juice. And the fig preserve? I will just say this: Fig Newtons are awful. Fig anything is awful. All those little seeds. It’s seedy! Look the word “seedy” up in the dictionary!
11. She cooked/cooks dinner every single night. Even though she and your father in law had/have lots of time on their hands, discretionary income, and a car with only ten thousand miles on it. So when you want to go out for a lovely candlelight dinner at “Chez Gourmet,” he sees her in his mind’s eye, happily making pot roast and glazing carrots. Saving money. And then he turns to you and says, “I don’t understand why we can’t just eat here. Why don’t you change out of your work clothes and just whip up something while I have a beer?”
12. She died too soon. Or she is still living an exemplary life. Either way, you lose.