Occasionally still, I get treacly emails from friends telling me how great I am simply because I’m someone’s mother.  I hate those emails.  I don’t even open and read them anymore, because the longer I am a mother, the more I realize this whole thing is a crapshoot.  While I may have the most important job in the world (that’s what all those emails always say), the qualifications are suspect at best.  There were no exams to pass, and even my husband has admitted to be pleasantly surprised that I’m not a basket-case when it comes to raising the girls.  Thanks honey.

My favorite quote pertaining to parenthood comes from Hodding Carter:   There are only two lasting bequests we can hope to give our children.  One is roots, the other, wings.

I don’t have to explain the meaning there, do I?  The roots part feels natural to me.  In 2010, the wings idea is much more difficult.  I’m constantly questioning my ability, our ability as a society, to allow children to make their own mistakes, to get into scrapes and figure out for themselves how to get out of them, to cut their own damn meat.  I’m not a heli-parent by any means.  I don’t hover over my kids.  But I’m a far cry from my own mother, who allowed my siblings and I freedom that would be considered child-abuse today.  It wasn’t then and it isn’t now child abuse, nor neglect.  It was life, our lives, and I can’t help feeling that, in most ways, I’m a better person for being allowed to live that way.

Last week, my friend Elizabeth sent me (and several others) this missive about our past.  I don’t agree with everything it contains, particularly the line, “What can kids do today besides push buttons?”  I happen to be a big fan of kids today and all they can do, and I believe it’s our own damn fault that they’re not learning the same kind of independence we were allowed.  But I haven’t stopped thinking about it since I received the email and haven’t stopped trying to figure out ways to give Goldie, Bun Bun and Miss T some of what I had.  But I’m getting somewhere.  Goldie made dinner tonight while Bun Bun ran up and down the stairs with scissors in her hand.  Miss T was outside playing with matches.

I’m kidding.  I don’t actually know where Miss T is.

The email:

TO ALL THE KIDS WHO SURVIVED THE 1930s, 40s, 50s, 60s and 70s!!

First, we survived being born to mothers who smoked and/or drank while they were pregnant.
They took aspirin, ate blue cheese dressing, tuna from a can and didn’t get tested for diabetes.
Then after that trauma, we were put to sleep on our tummies in baby cribs covered with bright colored lead-base paints.
We had no childproof lids on medicine bottles, locks on doors or cabinets and when we rode our bikes, we had baseball caps not helmets on our heads.
As infants & children, we would ride in cars with no car seats, no booster seats, no seat belts, no air bags, bald tires and sometimes no brakes.
Riding in the back of a pick- up truck on a warm day was always a special treat.
We drank water from the garden hose and not from a bottle.
We shared one soft drink with four friends, from one bottle and no one actually died from this.
We ate cupcakes made with Lard, white bread, real butter and bacon. We drank Kool-AID made with real white sugar. And, we weren’t overweight.   WHY?
Because we were always outside playing….that’s why!
We would leave home in the morning and play all day, as long as we were back when the streetlights came on…
No one was able to reach us all day. And, we were OKAY.
We would spend hours building our go-carts out of scraps and then ride them down the hill, only to find out we forgot the brakes. After running into the bushes a few times, we learned to solve the problem.
We did not have PlayStations, Nintendos or X-boxes. There were no video games, no 150 channels on cable, no video movies or DVDs, no surround-sound or CDs, no cell phones,
no personal computers, no Internet and no chat rooms.
WE HAD FRIENDS and we went outside and found them!
We fell out of trees, got cut, broke bones and teeth and there were no lawsuits from these accidents.
We would get spankings with wooden spoons, switches, ping pong paddles, or just a bare hand and no one would call child services to report abuse.
We ate worms and mud pies made from dirt, and the worms did not live in us forever.
We were given BB guns for our 10th birthdays, made up games with sticks and tennis balls and, although we were told it would happen, we did not put out very many eyes.
We rode bikes or walked to a friend’s house and knocked on the door or rang the bell, or just walked in and talked to them.
Little League had tryouts and not everyone made the team.
Those who didn’t had to learn to deal with disappointment.
Imagine that!!
The idea of a parent bailing us out if we broke the law was unheard of. They actually sided with the law!
These generations have produced some of the BEST risk-takers, problem solvers and inventors ever.
The past 50 years have been an explosion of innovation and new ideas. What can kids today do besides push buttons?
We had freedom, failure, success and responsibility, and we learned how to deal with it all.
If YOU are one of them, CONGRATULATIONS!
You might want to share this with others who have had the luck to grow up as kids, before the lawyers and the government regulated so much of our lives.
While you are at it, forward it to your kids so they will know how brave and lucky their parents were.
Kind of makes you want to run through the house with scissors, doesn’t it ?

Food. Works wonders.

When children are babies and they cry, chances are there’s a specific reason.  They’re hungry, they’re tired, they need a diaper change or a swaddling.  Some of them just want to feel the groove, so you either rock them or take them for a spin in the minivan.  Unless you’ve been cursed with the bad seed (a colicky baby), an unhappy bundle is usually simple to appease.

Some things don’t change, but as mothers get older, we forget.  Brain cells have been sucked clear out of our cortex.  Our ability to pause before exploding lessens.  The kids are older and can dress themselves.  Other than schlep them around, what more is there to do?  Why do they keep incessantly calling my name?

“Mom?  Mom?  Mom, mom, mom?”

“What?!  WHAT-DO-YOU-WANT?!”

I was reminded recently that, in fact, they do still need more than transportation.  I threw them all on the subway the other day, with one of their friends in tow, and sitting there wondered why they were all so grumpy and quiet.  Bun Bun was downright disgusted with me, convinced that I was engendering them to partake in yet another “educational” field trip.  For her, that means leaving the house to do anything other than see a movie or bowl.  I took them last week to a little noontime concert downtown and you would’ve thought I’d given her a math test and rewarded correct answers by making her eat pig knuckles.  So we’re on the Metro this past Thursday and easily the most unhappy group aboard – more so even than the guy who has his entire life packed into a plastic grocery bag and is eating his shoelaces.  I don’t know what I’ve done wrong and I’m frustrated.  Isn’t riding an underground train more fun than sitting in traffic?

And then it dawns on me.  They’re hungry.  I’ve made the almost fatal and unforgiving parental mistake of taking children somewhere at lunchtime without giving them lunch.  I had every intention of feeding them once we arrived at Grand Central Market, our destination, but to them, that was as far away as the moon.  What the hell is wrong with me? I ask myself.  Children need to eat regularly, just like they did when they were little, soft Michelin Tire creatures.  Am I a masochist?

We got off the subway after what seemed like hours to them and walked four ugly blocks to a place they’d never been and didn’t care to see.  They just wanted food.  I, too, had never been to the Grand Central Market but was curious to see a bit of Los Angeles history.  Once we stepped inside, I came to my senses and walked straight to a taco stand where we ordered the sloppiest, greasiest Mexican food I’ve ever eaten.  It didn’t matter.  The girls ate without complaining of the mess being created, the slop on their clothes, the lack of nuance in the spices.  In a matter of minutes, they were animated, cheerful, interested in each other (if not me) and grateful to be somewhere they’d never been.  All because I fed them.  Go figure.

Monday motherhood is as much to remind me of the basics of parenting as it is to reach out and hear that all mothers forget to feed their children every now and then, right?  Right?

My sister-in-law from Colorado is like a shiny new toy for the girls.  They call her Stinky because, well…she smells.  Not really.  She doesn’t smell that bad.  She’s been with us since Monday so the energy in the house has been unlimited, and it hasn’t come from me.  Quite the opposite.  I sleep late and yawn a lot throughout the day.  Stinky, on the other hand, is tireless.  I don’t get it but I appreciate it with all my heart.  The girls are happy.  They squeal.  They dance.  They jump.  They seldom look at me and say, “You’re meaaaaaaaaaan!”  I love Stinky.

She left this morning.  It’s a little like when my mother-in-law leaves.  I fear, after the girls wave good-bye to a favorite, super-fun relative, they’re just going to turn around, take one look at me, and claw me to death.  Fortunately, they don’t have claws.  They have fingers with stubby nails so the worst they could do is beat me with their little fists.  Again, as luck would have it, they’re girls so they don’t really know how to use their fists but still.  I’m scared.  That’s why I’m sitting here in the office while they go upstairs and get out of their pajamas.  It sounds as if they’ve locked themselves in Goldie’s room to listen to music…and plot my demise.

I’ve named my site Daily Cup of Jo because my desire is to come to you daily (meaning every day) with news, info, essays, recipes and insights that you can’t live without.  I miss a day here and there for reasons too ordinary to share, and I apologize.  Yesterday should have been an alliteration Wednesday but I was busy drafting a soccer team for my nine-year-old daughter, Bun Bun.  Yeah, that’s right – drafting.  LeBron James was not available, nor was Mia Hamm, so I went with a girl named Burberry Plaid who apparently has a strong left kick.

Later on today, I’m going to give you a recipe for an avocado shrimp salad sandwich but I haven’t figured out the recipe yet, though it will involve a small crustacean.  In the meantime, here’s another picture of our puppy Jack.  We took him and our other dog, Shelby, to a dog beach yesterday and they’re both still sleeping off the excitement.  Or maybe Jack is just grabbing some Zzzzzzzs before his big gig tonight.  He’s been having a rough time with the G-minor chord.

Fortunately, I have three very different daughters.  Unfortunately, I have three very different daughters.  They’re close enough in age, all within three and a half years, but as Goldie heads towards puberty, Bun Bun and Miss T are often getting screwed.  I tend to cater more to Goldie’s social, emotional and entertainment needs.  I’m not sure Miss T even knows that Sesame Street is a television show and not an actual thoroughfare.  Oh, she’s fully aware of Edward and Jacob, but not Dora, Boots and The Map.  She’s seven.  It breaks my heart.

Being the youngest of five, I know a bit about Miss T’s experience.  Joni Mitchell was my obsession when my friends were invested in Bobby Sherman.  When I was seven, I acted like I was ten.  At sixteen, people thought I was twenty (so I pushed it and occasionally bought beer for me and my friends.)  I worry that I’m not giving Miss T the age-appropriate and full breadth of childhood experiences that she needs.  And I worry about more.

Bun Bun would rather be home than anywhere else in the world.  She’s popular at school but turns down requests to play with friends after because she’d rather be by herself (or with her sisters) creating or inventing.  Did I do something wrong?  Why doesn’t she want classmates over?  Why is she so quiet?

Goldie’s the opposite.  If it were up to her, her friends would live with us.  She wants them around at all times and her social life trumps all else – including schoolwork.  She’s a very good student but shouldn’t I be pushing her to be great?  To reach her full potential?  If I don’t, what will become of her?

There’s just too much of this mothering stuff that I fear I’m not getting right.

Oh, take a big, fat, frickin’ breath Jo.  Your kids are going to be fine.

They are.

Miss T may have never gone through a “Wiggles” phase but she’ll grow up and remember who Pink and the Black-Eyed Peas were.  Her cool maturity will be valuable when she needs it to be.

Bun Bun may be a homebody but she’ll get older confident in her ability to take care of and be true to herself while conceiving a masterpiece of focus.

Goldie will ingratiate herself with others and be so comfortable out in the world among them that giving and receiving support will sustain her, and then some.

They’re going to be fine.

They’ll blame me for much but I believed I signed a contract while under anesthesia in the maternity ward that gave them the legal right to do so.  And if they have children of their own, they’ll eventually blame me less and maybe even apologize because they’ll finally understand what it’s taken me all these years to realize.

The husband and I created them but the moment they came out of the womb, they were separate from us.  They are unique.  They are not we.

I am desperately trying to prevent them from making any of the mistakes I’ve made in my life.  At times, I am overwhelmed with the need to see them make the right decisions, choose the right friends, say the right words.  Don’t just pass that test, ace it.  Don’t just sing that song, belt it.  Don’t just run that race, win it.  Because that’s what I want for them.  I cannot make my daughters want it for themselves.

This massive realization will not change the fact that tomorrow night, when I walk into Bun Bun’s room and see her clothes on the floor once more, I will not clench my teeth and ask her to pick up her room again.  It will change my understanding, though, that if she still isn’t picking up her clothes by the time she goes away to college, it doesn’t mean I’ve failed or she’s failed or somehow she’ll end up a derelict.  It means she’s one of those people who leave their clothes on the floor.  She’s Bun Bun.  I’m Jo, her mother.

I hope I haven’t made your head spin (like “Inception”).

Whatever a soccer mom is, I am one.  But on Saturday, after I’d shown up for a soccer coaching clinic to learn how to be hysterical on the sidelines for Bun Bun’s team, I wondered.  Why not the term “soccer dad”?  I have some theories and all of them are angry.

After arriving at the park, looking for a gentleman by the name of Jonathan who was heading up Bun Bun’s division, I saw a group of men standing around talking to a woman with a clipboard.  I approached one of the men who looked like a Jonathan, and asked in a whisper if he was.  He dismissed me as if I were a turd and then half-ass pointed to another man standing a little ways behind him.  In that one instant of turdness, I flipped through the pages in my life when I was written off by a man because I was a woman and not one who looked like Gisele Bündchen.

After introducing myself to the real Jonathan, a friendly fellow, I asked several questions.  Among them, who were these men and why were they so intently listening to the woman with the clipboard.  I was told we would be “drafting” our teams later in the week  and these men, coaches like myself, were deeply interested in hearing the rules of the draft, presumably so they could use it to their advantage and field a team no one could beat.

Jonathan felt as I did, that eight and nine-year-old kids in this league should be allowed to have fun with friends, learn sportsmanship and acquire skills both physical and mental.  Learning how to be part of a team is important.  He also told me these other men standing around were boys’ coaches and much too serious.  “’Cause I’ve coached the girls,” he said by way of being jovial, “and it’s much more of a social thing for them.  They’ll stop doing a drill to talk about their nail polish.”  And then he laughed, expecting me to do the same.

I wanted to run screaming from the situation, as fast as I could.  I wanted to run and run and run and get rid of, through sweat and endorphins, the urge I had to scream from the top of my lungs, “Men suck!”  Instead, I swallowed my regurgitation and politely told Jonathan that Bun Bun’s friends never talked about nail polish last season, nor the season before, although I admitted that girls’ soccer usually ended up being more social than boys.  Women are, by nature, more social.  We love to talk.  It’s why we live longer than men.  It’s why we’re better.

That was Saturday morning.  I spent the rest of the day thinking about the battle of the sexes, chauvinism, misogyny, the Catholic Church, my father, Hillary Clinton (not the betrothed Chelsea), sports, the role of feminism in society, my mom friends who work “outside the home”, my mom friends who don’t, chick flicks, chick lit, my husband who brings home the bacon and our three daughters who eat it.

Three daughters.  I’m not sure I would be so aware of the imbalances in society regarding men versus women if I was not trying to convince these girls that there were none.  I’d be the first woman to say that, in this country, I’ve never felt obstructed because of my gender but I’ve allowed myself to feel “less than”.  In my progesterone dominated household, that’s just no good.  What to do, what to do, what to do?

The snub on Saturday from jerk man ruffled me because I knew he would not have reacted similarly to Gisele.  But getting upset about it like I did was just plain stupid.  Clearly, I’ve got my own issues about not putting my best physical self forward and that’s a whole other can of worms.  But it did serve to remind me about my role in my daughters’ lives.  I’m ground zero for where they learn about what it means to be a woman.  I want them to embrace their femininity but define the term themselves.  “Girly girl” and “tomboy” and “soccer mom” are labels, not entirely offensive but limiting.  I want them to know there are no limits, even as they’ll go through life facing situations which make me look like a liar.

I want them to know that the world is their oyster.  If they’d like to add lemon and cocktail sauce to make it better, they should.  And I also want them to know men are wonderful, except the ones who are dismissive of strong women, a sure indication that they have a small penis.  Did I just say that?  I didn’t, did I?

Maybe I should have looked jerk man in the eye and said, “Oh, you’re a soccer dad,” and walked away.  He’d be confused, not knowing what I meant by it (I don’t know myself), but he’d realize it wasn’t a compliment and feel dismissed.  Maybe he’d think twice next time he dismissed someone himself.  Probably not.  Much too busy drafting his under ten-year-old boys to field a championship team in AYSO because, you know, that is what’s really important.

Thanks.  I’m fine now.