Sancti-Mom-ious

Over the last nearly nineteen years, I've heard all manner of sancti-Mom-my:

My child doesn't eat... fast food, soda, sweets, preservatives, etc.

My child doesn't watch television.

My child doesn't read that.

My child was born potty-trained.

My child has always slept through the night.

My child this....

My child that....

My child wouldn't dream of....

My child couldn't possibly....

And so it goes.

Because there is such a gap between my oldest and my two youngest, I am often among mothers with much less time spent in the parenting gig. Their sancti-Mom-ious tone is, of course, most despicable since, more often than not, they don't know what the feck they're talking about. Unfortunately, it's socially unacceptable to sigh and suggest, "Hey! Why don't you spend a little more time working the kinks out of your whole 'parenting vision' before you inflict your half-baked philosophy on the rest of us, you sancti-Mom-ious dolt?" Since I am supposed to model for my children the sorts of behavior I'd like them to exhibit, however, I refrain.

But the words tickle my lips.

It's not as if homeschooling is without its sancti-Mommies, by the way. In fact, some bring sancti-Mom-my to new heights (or depths), what, with their lists and their schoolrooms and their posters and their what-have-you.

My child scored a 32 on the ACT when she was eleven.

My child doesn't read twaddle. (Typing that ridiculous word makes me mildly ill.)

My child is in fifth grade. We don't always have enough time for physics, advanced calculus, and oboe lessons. Should we give up sleeping or eating?

My child completed Henle Latin. He's six. What now?

Or, alternately...

My child is ten and still can't read (or do math or write a clear sentence or whatever), but that's all right because we're at peace with the universe.

My child is behind in everything, but life keeps getting in the way, and life is, after all, the best teacher, right?

My child this....

My child that....

My child wouldn't dream of....

My child couldn't possibly....

It's enough to make a thinking person scream: Stop the sancti-Mom-my now!
_____________________

I took my kids to Steak-n-Shake for dinner tonight. My husband is working late and cooking seemed too much of an effort on this beautiful Friday night. I drove our aging van to the lake, and we watched the heron make several lonely criss-crosses over the gray, wind-tossed water. My son and I read the Sun-Times, and my daughters read #20 and #11 in the Animorphs series. We checked the local television listings to see if "Mythbusters" will be on this evening and licked the salt from our fingertips before slurping the last of our shakes.

We stopped at Home Depot to exchange the garage door remote and then drove home in companionable silence.

Earlier today, my son and I hung a new bird feeder, and my daughters and I set up a science experiment (which, as regular M-mv readers know, stands a much better chance of failing than succeeding, but that's all right — we'll roll with it), read aloud from our astronomy book, discussed Twelfth Night, and practiced piano. In the afternoon, the girls played outside, Boy-boy installed software on his new computer, and I read a book. There was other stuff; there always is — math, spelling, Latin, and the rest. But that was the gist of it.

It was a good day.

And that's not sancti-Mom-my. That's confidence and contentment.

You either have it.

Or you don't.

My observation is that sancti-Mom-my masks a decided lack of confidence and contentment.

Or a wealth of stupidity.

Or both.

Heh, heh, heh.