My name is Sarah, and I am a Beta Mom.

There is an unspoken, unwritten rule in the modern "stay at home mother community" that says the image of perfection must be maintained at all times, and at any cost. One must always portray oneself as blissful, calm, in control and above all else, successful. One must follow strict protocol in regards to creating and maintaining a thoughtful and properly planned schedule of daily, weekly, monthly, seasonally, yearly and once-per-childhood activities.

One's home, however grand or modest, must always be cleaned, organized, smelling of Lemon Verbena Infused Air Dried Linens, and ready for spontaneous house guests and play dates. One's appearance should always reflect the fact that one is consumed with pleasing one's husband and staying atop current trends, lest one should be labeled "One of Those Ponytail and Sweatpants Moms Who Has Really Let Herself Go."

Children of a "stay at home mother" must always be dressed appropriately (in boutique clothing, or at the very least Gymboree) for the weather and events of the day. They must play together as best play-mates, and work cooperatively to clean up after their developmentally appropriate art projects are finished. They must maintain a demanding and rigorous roster of extra-curricular activities for academic and social enrichment.

And I say: What a diaper-load of crap!

I'm going to wager a guess that this hyper-focus on pseudo-perfection comes from two distinct areas of pressure. One is that stay-at-home-moms still have not recovered, as a whole, from the pendulum swing of feminism. We've come a long way, baby, but we can't quite figure out where we're going. First we could not work outside the home without raising eyebrows, then we had to work outside the home to feel of worth, and now we are (supposedly) finally in the time and place where we have the liberty and social approval to choose to be at home or to have a career, or anywhere in between. Unfortunately, many stay at home moms are hesitant to be proud of their individual choice. We often label ourselves with what we imagine the rest of the adult working world sees; naive, uneducated, idealistic, weak, and old-fashioned. And sometimes we really are labeled by others. I was once (wrongly!) accused by another woman of choosing to stay at home so I could be lazy and control my husband by "forcing him to work" and therefore "trapping him in marriage." Yes, that really was said. No, I am not exaggerating. And no, I did not physically harm her after she made her statement, although I sincerely wanted to.

The other reason we put on the mask of perfection is competition and a craving for approval. We don't want to be the one woman in playgroup who doesn't have her act together. We want to be the best mommy, the best home manager, the best cook on the block. If we're the best, then we'll impress everyone else. And if we impress everyone else, they'll praise us for a job well done. Maybe it'll be through a comment about their envy for some skill we possess, or maybe a wistful look of disbelief as we deftly handle something they don't do as well. And then, only then, can we feel pride in our choice and our ability. When we get a figurative pat on the back from someone else who knows our role and responsibilities well... from someone on the inside. We crave that approval, that feeling of having conquered the task better than anyone else, when we don't have a manager or supervisor to give us positive feedback and a raise.

Well, I am here to tell you that I, for one, am not anywhere close to being SuperMom. And I don't think it's in my heart to even desire that label any more. Being SuperMom requires too much pride. Too much fear in failing. Too much anxiety and conditional approval. Too much being responsible for our children instead of being responsible to our children. I'd much rather be a Beta Mom, as I've heard it termed. I have a friend who wisely says, "I just want to be a happy medium." I absolutely agree. I want my house to be clean enough, organized enough. I want to be pretty enough. I want my kids to get along well enough and to have their time be occupied just enough. That leaves wiggle room for development, change, honesty, spontaneity, real life to occur. And Lord help me to have humility and empathy for others, so that I may see them for their true, unique selves, and not for a mask they might wear. We need to celebrate all the varied and wonderful ways of mothering, and mentor younger moms with a heart for acceptance and authenticity.

It is not within my power to change the views of society, the influence of feminism, or our tendency as women towards self-paralysis without approval. But I can stand proud for my own choices and abilities as well as be humble enough to show my faults along with my strengths. And I can accept the fact that we all do things differently in life, but we have the same goal in mind- to learn and grow as we raise healthy, happy, well-adjusted children and to make our own unique mark on the world in the process. One of my favorite quotes: "There is no one way to be a perfect mother but a million ways to be a good one. (Jill Churchill)."

Lord Help Me.

I will not beat my child.

I will not beat my child.

I will not beat my child.

...But this little punk is going into solitary confinement.

With a toybox, some trash bags and a vaccuum cleaner.

Lucky for him, he's cute.

A Cherished Visitor

I don't buy into the idea of ghosts being lost between worlds, angry, vengeful, mourning and skulking around dark corners and hallways, whooooooing away. Nor do I believe they are Casper-like, friendly little do-gooder spirits, looking for ways to lend a helping hand to the living. Don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't believe in ghosts at all. I believe in the Holy Ghost. I believe the Holy Ghost guides us, helps us, dwells in our hearts, gives us words to pray. But as far as "ghosts" go, I believe the dead no longer have use for our realm. They are in their places of eternity, possibly observing us, but more than likely having a great big ol' party up above, and getting ready to throw the confetti when we join them.

But what about those who never really had a chance to live, except in the dark peaceful quiet of their mothers' wombs? There is a little ghost who visits me sometimes. She wasn't done with our world, and we never had time to cuddle and chat. She formed miraculously within me for a few short months, she grew me into a mother, and then was taken away. Other than the ebb and flow of emotion she felt through my body, the warmth of my hands protectively cradling her, the lull of my voice and my heartbeat she felt through vibrations in water, she never knew of earth. It's been 8 years since she left and I've had my chance to grieve. I find peace in the fact that while I never had a chance to hold her, she's been rocked and embraced in the arms of Jesus himself. I've thought of how she's there with my grandparents and other loved ones, laughing at stories of my childhood calamities, learning all about the people she came from and basking in the presence of our Creator.

Every once in a while, though, I feel her here with me. I wonder if God gives a special privilege to these little ones- a kind of "visitation pass" to leave campus once in a while. You know, to have a little glimpse of what their earthly experience would have been like? Sometimes when I'm browsing the racks of a Gymboree store I'll glance up from the boy section and instantly spot a little polka dot sun dress or a soft Easter sweater across the store, and without thinking logically, realize that it would be perfect on Hannah. I can almost feel her tugging on my jacket to go over and touch the fabric. Or when my due date comes around each year, I feel a little bit of warmth, like a hug, that isn't due to the heat vents kicking on or a ray of sun through the window. It's accompanied by a sense of reassurance that it's still a day to celebrate. Every now and then I feel her in the living room, bouncing on the couch cushions and giggling at her brothers' antics. It's not that I can see her there, or even feel the sensations of the cushion moving. It's more of a day dream that catches me off guard. I'm not even aware that I'm seeing her until my conscious mind takes back control and she's instantly gone...until next time.

I didn't realize, when I was pregnant that first time, how common miscarriage is. I never imagined I'd have that experience to reflect on for the rest of my life. My doctors told me that 1 in 4 pregnancies ends this way and that it is "nature's way of taking care of abnormalities." They gave me the option of having the "fetal tissue" scraped out with a D&C or going home to wait for my body to take care of business. Some well meaning friends and family even told me it was "God's will." It seemed that everyone wanted to help by trying to make the loss less of a loss, to make it more sterilized, practical, non-human, or even a mistake to be corrected. The more they discussed how common it was, the more alone I felt in the experience. Instinctively, protectively, I took back the reigns 8 years ago. I left the hospital and its antiseptic smell. I cried buckets until my eyes were swollen shut, I sat on the couch in my robe for days with no shower, I drew the curtains shut and didn't eat. After weeks went by, when I felt my body cramp up and the cruelty of a labor for no baby, I held up my chin and got through it. The hardest part was not the cramping pain, but the emptiness that followed. It was both physical and emotional. I had a body that wanted desperately to hold on to a baby that couldn't grow. I had a heart that wanted to grieve a baby that needed to be mothered. Have you ever been to a funeral for an unborn baby? Unless it was your own, you haven't. They have an attendance of one. But as painful and lonely as it was, I said goodbye on my own terms.

I don't know what to make of it when I see the image of a "ghost" in a movie preview. The intent is for the viewer to feel pangs of terror. My brain instantly converts the image to one that is laughable- a white sheet controlled by a puppeteer behind a curtain. Kind of like the Wizard of Oz when he gets found out for who he really is and all the mystery fizzles away. Because I know a ghost who visits me, and she's not a vessel of terror and angst. She's a whisper, a flood of warmth, a soft brush against my cheek. She's come to see her mother, to hold my hand, to cuddle against me while I sleep, to join in on her brothers' fun and listen to her daddy sing. She's here to tell me that she misses me, but there's an amazing place where she'll be waiting to welcome me. It's her perfect, eternal home. She's there with so many other little ones, who come to visit their mothers once in a while. Mothers know all about ghosts.

*This post was entered in Scribbit's October Write-Away contest. If you'd like to enter, please visit Scribbit.

Another Fabulous Quote...

It is a mystery why adults expect perfection from children. Few grown-ups can get through a whole day without making a mistake. ~Marcelene Cox

A Wonderful Quote...

There is no way to be a perfect mother

and a million ways to be a good one.

~Jill Churchill

Love and Adoration.

Baby neck nuzzles, tiny squeeks and sighs, ten perfectly scrumptious toesies, squishy baby bum... A little piece of heaven on earth. Congratulations to my sweet friend, Ali! And isn't she a beautiful mommy?

I love Paul Harvey!

My mom sent this, by Paul Harvey:

We tried so hard to make things better for our kids that we made them worse. For my grandchildren, I'd like better.

I'd really like for them to know about hand me down clothes and homemade ice cream and leftover meat loaf sandwiches. I really would.

I hope you learn humility by being humiliated, and that you learn honesty by being cheated.

I hope you learn to make your own bed and mow the lawn and wash the car. And I really hope nobody gives you a brand new car when you are sixteen.

It will be good if at least one time you can see puppies born and your old dog put to sleep.

I hope you get a black eye fighting for something you believe in.

I hope you have to share a bedroom with your younger brother/sister. And it's all right if you have to draw a line down the middle of the room, but when he wants to crawl under the covers with you because he' s scared, I hope you let him. When you want to see a movie and your little brother/sister wants to tag along, I hope you'll let him/her.

I hope you have to walk uphill to school with your friends and that you live in a town where you can do it safely.

On rainy days when you have to catch a ride, I hope you don't ask your driver to drop you two blocks away so you won't be seen riding with someone as uncool as your Mom. If you want a slingshot, I hope your Dad teaches you how to make one instead of buying one.

I hope you learn to dig in the dirt and read books. When you learn to use computers, I hope you also learn to add and subtract in your head.

I hope you get teased by your friends when you have your first crush on a boy/girl, and when you talk back to your mother that you learn what ivory soap tastes like.

May you skin your knee climbing a mountain, burn your hand on a stove and stick your tongue on a frozen flagpole.

I don't care if you try a beer once, but I hope you don't like it. And if a friend offers you dope or a joint, I hope you realize he is not your friend.

I sure hope you make time to sit on a porch with your Grandma/Grandpa and go fishing with your Uncle.

May you feel sorrow at a funeral and joy during the holidays.

I hope your mother punishes you when you throw a baseball through your neighbor's window and that she hugs you and kisses you at Hannukah/Christmas time when you give her a plaster mold of your hand.

These things I wish for you- tough times and disappointment, hard work and happiness. To me, it's the only way to appreciate life.

Written with a pen. Sealed with a kiss. I'm here for you. And if I die before you do, I'll go to heaven and wait for you.

The Meanest Mother in the World

I had the meanest mother in the whole world. While other kids ate candy for breakfast, I had to have cereal, eggs or toast. When others had cokes and candy for lunch, I had to eat a sandwich. As you can guess, my supper was different than the other kids' also.

But at least, I wasn't alone in my sufferings. My sister and two brothers had the same mean mother as I did.

My mother insisted upon knowing where we were at all times. You'd think we were on a chain gang. She had to know who our friends were and where we were going. She insisted if we said we'd be gone an hour, that we be gone one hour or less--not one hour and one minute. I am nearly ashamed to admit it, but she actually struck us. Not once, but each time we had a mind of our own and did as we pleased. That poor belt was used more on our seats than it was to hold up Daddy's pants. Can you imagine someone actually hitting a child just because he disobeyed? Now you can begin to see how mean she really was.

We had to wear clean clothes and take a bath. The other kids always wore their clothes for days. We reached the height of insults because she made our clothes herself, just to save money. Why, oh why, did we have to have a mother who made us feel different from our friends?

The worst is yet to come. We had to be in bed by nine each night and up at eight the next morning. We couldn't sleep till noon like our friends. So while they slept-my mother actually had the nerve to break the child-labor law. She made us work. We had to wash dishes, make beds, learn to cook and all sorts of cruel things. I believe she laid awake at night thinking up mean things to do to us.

She always insisted upon us telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, even if it killed us- and it nearly did.

By the time we were teen-agers, she was much wiser, and our life became even more unbearable. None of this tooting the horn of a car for us to come running. She embarrassed us to no end by making our dates and friends come to the door to get us. If I spent the night with a girlfriend, can you imagine she checked on me to see if I were really there. I never had the chance to elope to Mexico. That is if I'd had a boyfriend to elope with. I forgot to mention, while my friends were dating at the mature age of 12 and 13, my old fashioned mother refused to let me date until the age of 15 and 16. Fifteen, that is, if you dated only to go to a school function. And that was maybe twice a year.

Through the years, things didn't improve a bit. We could not lie in bed, "sick" like our friends did, and miss school. If our friends had a toe ache, a hang nail or serious ailment, they could stay home from school. Our marks in school had to be up to par. Our friends' report cards had beautiful colors on them, black for passing, red for failing. My mother being as different as she was, would settle for nothing less than ugly black marks.

As the years rolled by, first one and then the other of us was put to shame. We were graduated from high school. With our mother behind us, talking, hitting and demanding respect, none of us was allowed the pleasure of being a drop-out.

My mother was a complete failure as a mother. Out of four children, a couple of us attained some higher education. None of us have ever been arrested, divorced or beaten his mate. Each of my brothers served his time in the service of this country. And whom do we have to blame for the terrible way we turned out? You're right, our mean mother. Look at the things we missed. We never got to march in a protest parade, nor to take part in a riot, burn draft cards, and a million and one other things that our friends did. She forced us to grow up into God-fearing, educated, honest adults.

Using this as a background, I am trying to raise my three children. I stand a little taller and I am filled with pride when my children call me mean. Because, you see, I thank God, He gave me the meanest mother in the whole world.

Written by
Bobbie Pingaro ©1967

*Mean Mommy agrees, give or take a few points. I don't necessarily advocate beating your child with a belt or squelching the formation of political opinion. But all in all, my goal in life is to be this mean to my boys.

I think it's going rather well. I got complaints from Isaiah at the grocery store last week. He wanted Cookie Crunch cereal and I said no. "MOM! How come you NEVER let us have stuff that's bad for us? You ALWAYS make us eat healthy food! It's NOT FAIR!" I shook my head and said sympathetically, "I know, son. It's so sad." An older woman overheard us and laughed as she walked around the corner. I bet she was mean once, too. Just like my own horrible mother.

This week my boys asked for celery with peanut butter and raisins and a cup of V8 for lunch. I obliged. Then they asked for seconds on the V8. Sometimes... it's good to be mean.

Sugar and Spice... That's what Mommy thought she was made of.

All my life I imagined having a sweet and sensitive daughter. I pictured a vintage 1930s cottage style bedroom, nouveau hippy chick braids, Pippi Longstocking tights, girl scout outings, and prom dress shopping. Growing up, I was a girly girl myself. I squirmed and gagged over bugs and blood and even the food trapped in the drain after doing dishes. When we went fishing, my dad always baited the hook so I wouldn't have to touch the fish eggs. I spent countless hours coloring, playing with Barbies, writing sappy poetry and collecting pictures out of magazines for my some day wedding to my some day groom and the some day house we'd live in.

Fast forward to some day. The only reason my oldest child gave a real smile for a family portrait was because he farted in his dad's lap. I trip over tiny dinosaurs and Star Wars figurines. I know the difference between rough housing and playing too rough and the eyes in the back of my head can see who started it. I get called into the bathroom to look at a "really cool poop." I know that silence is a bad thing. I know what kind of screams mean there is blood involved. I know that it is possible for a pee-pee to get caught in a pogo stick spring. In the last year I have fixed 5 broken drawer fronts, 4 cracked outlet covers, 2 broken light fixtures, 2 broken doors, and a broken toilet seat. Vintage cottage style has been forgotten for a Yoda poster, Tonka trucks, randomly flung dirty underwear, and whatever sheets are clean enough. Not clean- just clean enough. Ice skating lessons (for hockey, of course), soccer, little league, tarantula costumes for Halloween, "dirt fights" in the back yard, "pee fights" at the toilet (don't ask)... No- I definitely don't have girls. My life is all about being a mother of three rambunctious BOYS.

That's how I know there is a God. You see, if the universe simply hinged on evolution and survival of the fittest, I figure I would have had girls. Girls who would have been agreeable and calm and Mommy's Little Helpers. Girls who would have reflected a little bit of me as a kid. Girls I could have identified with. Discovery Channel could have featured our family of a dozen little mini-me's helping each other fold the laundry, starting up the crock pots, pushing multiple carts through warehouse grocery stores with well-organized lists in hand. We'd sit and paint and learn to sew while we homeschooled.

Instead, in his ultimate wisdom, God have me my boys. Boys who would take me out of my element and cause me to stretch and to grow. Cause me to take a stand, be heard, get tough, get over it. Boys who would melt my heart with their baby neck nuzzles and their silky hair and dimples. Boys who would bat their eyelashes adoringly at me and beg me to be their favorite audience and watch their antics over and over. These crazy boys of mine are always loud, always curious, always putting on a show. They've taught me to handle blood and bugars and puke. They've taught me to be a referee, judge, jury, jailer, night-time watchman, nurse, teacher, and pastor. The emergency room is as much a familiar place as play group and the library.

There is one thing I think God wanted me to learn the most from my boys. How to accept his life plan for me and how to have strength that is given from him and not of myself. I have a calling to grow into the person it takes to raise up 3 young men of strong character. I sure don't have it down perfectly, but I'm getting better every day at filling my job description and it's a job I never want to quit. These three might not sit still in the grocery cart, but they'll hold the door for the next 23 minutes when we leave the store because they like to be called "gentlemen." They might not have braids in their hair, but they'll brush my hair while I read a story. They don't need the latest doll or designer clothes or Tinkerbell lip gloss. Give them a stick and an empty cardboard box and they'll be happy all day.

One of these days the boys will be old enough for Daddy to take them on a boys weekend away. I'll hog the hot water in a long bubble bath, read chick lit, do my nails and eat chocolate and maybe do some shopping. But then the house will be too quiet and I'll miss them wrestling in the living room or sneaking bites of food off my plate. I'll take the snips and snails and puppy dog tails any day if it means getting hugs with grubby little arms and peanut butter kisses. Besides that I don't think the mini-me's would have been good for my mental state. I hear girls get PMS at age two.