A big part of working with the public is giving the appearance that everything is honky-dory, even when it isn't. I am essentially being paid to talk thirty-five times a day about the weather, grind some toenails, and send our patient's on their way with a coke and a smile. (Hold the coke.) Based on this week's performance, it is official that I suck at pretending. I have, in fact, been yelled at by more old people in the past two days than I care to count.
Interestingly, an irate 80 year old is the least of my problems.
Parenting, as it turns out, is by far my most difficult job. I can predict the 3-D structure of a protein or recite the Kreb's Cycle by heart, but I haven't the slightest clue how to keep my son's school binder organized. I can be the receptionist, the surgical coordinator, the medical assistant, the billing department, and the office manager concurrently, but (short of a cattle prod) I can't seem to expeditiously motivate my daughter from her bed each morning.
Now that my children are growing older, the task of parenting has become exponentially harder. They're expressing themselves, or not, however and whenever they deem appropriate. They test boundaries. They make me profoundly proud...and, at times, make me absolutely insane. As new pre-teen (gasp!) issues arise, I find myself questioning where, exactly, this roller coaster ride called motherhood will land me. Adolescent issues are big time game changers. When do I, as an overly-concerned-more-than-slightly-neurotic parent, step back and allow them to work things out on their own? Certainly, part of becoming an adult is dealing with what life deals you. But isn't it our motherly instinct to swoop in and smack all the bad guys upside their ignorant little heads (or is that just me?). Changing poopy diapers and teaching manners was so much easier.
I know this too shall pass. After all, I never thought I would make it through "The Talk"...but, low and behold, I found myself this summer pulling off an impromptu lock-and-key metaphor that not only surprised the heck out of me, but explained the birds and the bees so well that Meghan gasped in disgust over her own conception. It is moments like those, oddly enough, that really drive home how lucky I am to have the children I do. There are not many homes where sex education becomes a family discussion in which everyone actively and openly participates. (I could write a book about our dinner conversations.)
Maybe what we should do as parents is give ourselves a break and stop expecting perfection. Good kids will find their way.
Right?
I'm neurotic today because...
...countless hours of research, twenty-two phone calls, three missed classes, two parent-teacher conferences, and a partridge in a pear tree. 'Nough said.
