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.

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 was told recently by one of my children that I was embarrassing them.  I knew it would happen eventually.  That, at one point, my actions (no matter how innocent) would cause my children mental and social anguish.  That they wouldn’t want me to talk to them in front of their friends in case I would reveal that I – or God forbid, they – were somehow uncool.  I was totally prepared for that.

But I wasn’t prepared for it coming from my 5-year old.

On a recent jaunt to drop him off to his regular preschool, we pulled up a bit late.  His classmates were all arrayed outside the building in a nice, straight “choo-choo line” waiting for one of their teachers to lead them into the classroom.  As we ran up, I signed him in and bent down to give him a kiss.

“No kisses, Mama!” he said, leaning away from me.  “No kisses!  Too embarrassing!”

Wait… what?!?!

I thought I had prepared myself for that moment.  But in my head, I suppose I had been practicing that moment for Emma to start giving me the “Mom, drop me off at the corner” business.  Never, in my wildest dreams, did I think that I’d hear the ‘you’re embarrassing me’ speech from my little boy first.

I know that he was probably just imitating something he saw on TV.  He didn’t really mean it — and even if he did, I wasn’t nearly ready to lose this battle.  Not this early.  So I looked him square in the eye and told him:

“You are too young for this ‘no kisses’ bit, mister!”  And I proceeded to smother his face with kisses and give him a few good tickles while I was at it.  And while his preschool friends looked on and laughed, too.

He giggled, and said, “I was just kidding, Mama.  You’re silly!” and he ran off to go play with paint and play-doh.

Whew.

But I know the clock is ticking down the time until I hear the “Mom, you’re embarrassing me!” thing for real.  Until then, it’s kisses all around.

One of the joys of having Ryan as my son is his devilish sense of humor. From the moment he could talk, he enjoyed teasing, giggling and pretending to do something he wasn’t supposed to. When I would play along and pretend to be upset, he would respond with an ear-to-ear grin, saying: “Ha-ha! I’m not really doing that!” and laugh hysterically.

So it was a natural progression when, in order to get a pouty Ryan into the car, I said teasingly, “No getting in the car for you!” He laughed. And positively sprinted to the car.

Bingo, I thought: an easy way to get him to do what I want. Yahoo!

Soon, when he was grumpy and resistant, I would say: “No smiling for you! Absolutely NO having fun! I see a smile there… stop right now!” as I would reach in to tickle his tummy. He would giggle and suddenly his mood was improved for a good long time. Even grandma got in on the action during a recent lunch visit: “No eating your sandwich! You are not allowed to eat all of your sandwich, little boy!” she’d say with a smile and a little point on the end of his nose. He grinned back and gobbled up every last crumb.

But here’s the problem: I think I’ve made a HUGE tactical mistake.

Right now, he thinks it funny. I know that. But there is a very real part of me that worries that I am somehow teaching him that doing the *exact opposite* of what I say is somehow the best course of action. That — while his personality shows me every day that it’s just in his nature to tease and find it funny — perhaps there is a part of him that is learning a lesson I didn’t intend.

So Mommy needs to make some changes, just in case. Because what’s funny at 4 will certainly not be funny at 14. I mourn a little; it was so EASY – such a shortcut – to tell him the opposite of what I wanted, and watch him scurry to do it. But it really is something I should change.

So it doesn’t bite me in the butt down the road.

I have a bone to pick with the makers of teeny tiny toy parts. Stop. In the name of moms everywhere, please STOP. I know the kids love the itsy-bitsy pieces, the minute bits of plastic that can be stuck together in every conceivable configuration. I know that Polly is supposed to fit in a Very Small Pocket. But Polly does NOT need miniaturized accessories that scatter to the four winds just as soon as I’ve used the Jaws of Life to get the plastic packaging open. I do not need to spend my time picking out miniscule Lego connector pieces from between the loops of my carpet.

Lord knows we’ve tried everything to keep all the original bits together: Ziploc bags, special Tupperware containers, shoeboxes, crates, baskets—all to no avail. There is simply no way that any person (adult OR kid) can keep track of that many little pieces-parts.

Not to mention the fact that, as I’ve said before, stepping on hard-formed plastic things in the middle of the night is enough to make me curse like a sailor.

So I’ve decided that I’m going to throw away these petite parasitic toy parts when they get separated from their original host. Maybe the toy makers will learn that we don’t WANT all those diminutive doo-dads. When I find a single Barbie shoe, or a stray Playmobile helmet, that baby is going in the trash. It’s so small the kids couldn’t possibly miss it, right?

Wrong.

Ryan this morning: “Where is Lego Harry Potter’s wand? I had it yesterday!” Mind you, this is a 2 millimeter diameter, inch and a half long piece of brown plastic. I have a tinker’s chance of EVER locating that again – or knowing that it was supposed to be a wand. Or from Emma: “This Polly Pocket used to have a little purse. Mom! Have you seen the little purse that went with this girl?” Oh, yes, sweetie. I’m sure it’s in *my* purse- right next to the wrapper from the sucker you discarded yesterday, an odd playing card from the deck that got separated from the last game of ‘war’ we played, and a few stray goldfish crackers. (Yes, I know I’ll rue the day when her sarcasm gene kicks in, because she got it directly from me.)

So there’s the problem: the pieces are so small that they’re easy to misplace, lose or even find when it’s time to tidy up, but are apparently extremely important. The kids are acutely aware when even a single piece has gone … missing. (ahem! Yes, I said MISSING. That’s my story, and I’m stickin’ to it.)

This, I think, is exactly what the toy makers have in mind. That I will throw in the towel and throw small pieces away. And when I realize that I just *might* have tossed an important piece, l will give serious consideration to re-purchasing Tiny Toy 2000.

Evil geniuses.

Sometimes being a mom will sneak up on you at the strangest times. For example, this weekend, I went out for a quick stress-relieving jog through the local college campus. It was an early morning, and I was sloughing along in the peace and quiet. (Which, honestly, is one of the main motivating factors for my jogging: the chance to have some honest-to-goodness silence. Or at least music of my own choosing!)

As I made my way through the pretty ivy-colored buildings, I came upon a forested area, and the path in the road forked. I looked down those two paths – one of which I’d never noticed before. It ran right along the river. Secluded. Peaceful and verdant. Exactly what I was in the mood for.

I took a one step down that trail, and I heard my mother’s voice in my head, clear as day:

“Don’t EVEN think about it.”

It wasn’t even a suggestion. It was a command, straight from the mom of my childhood. “Do NOT put a single toe on that path. Are you kidding me? You’re alone, no one in your family knows *exactly* where you are, and you think a river path is the route to take? Yes, it’s quiet, but then no one will hear you if you get hurt or if you try to yell for help.” More