Mother of the Year....Not

I have lately been musing about my role in life. My ONLY role in life. That of mother.

And... it is not a joke that I often tell my children that they will have to dig really hard at my funeral to come up with nice things to say about me. They will have no problem discussing my psycho-mom tendencies, my need to eat all of their Valentine's chocolate (after insisting that NO one buy ME chocolate because I am on a perpetual diet), my gluttonous use of Netflix (translating into my inability to watch only one episode of any series at a time..I MUST watch the entire season in one sitting, preferably with some stolen Valentine's chocolate within reach), and the way I hiss certain terrible things under my breath having to do with people leaving tops of bottles loose in the fridge and putting empty cereal boxes back in the pantry.

I recently read a status update by a friend of mine. She was linking to her oldest daughter's latest published book and blog, while writing how fun the weekend was with both daughters and their various accomplishments (daughter number two runs a highly successful children's youth theatre at the ripe old age of 26). I actually was already bowing to the mothering of such talented girls when I decided to read her eldest daughter's blog. OK, the blog in which said daughter wrote that her mom made ALL of her party dresses in high school, and not only that--taught her to sew with such patience that this girl still loves to do it.

Huh?

I realized that there is literally nothing in my children's lives in which they can say, "My mom excelled in this, and taught me that WITH PATIENCE". I can't sew. I don't like to cook, and I certainly don't teach it with patience, I never showed them hospital corners on beds (which my mother did), and I never even read the Russian literature that I insisted they attempt.

I am good at one thing, however.

I DRIVE WELL.

Yes, while I have never taught my children anything useful in life, I am darned good at getting them to the experts. Sports? I'm there. Drama? Ditto. 4H (where maybe they will learn sewing)...I do reluctantly attend those meetings. Math? I pay good money for someone else to listen to Rowdy'e excuses. Church? YEP! I get up, get in my little station wagon with 180,000 miles on it, and intrepidly drive an hour into the seventh largest city in the US to make sure SOMEONE teaches my kids.

As long as it isn't me.

And, yes,---I homeschool them.

I used to think that at least I have taught them to think towards college and careers (well, even if I married at 21, I do have Perfect Daughter out there lawyering). That is, until this conversation happened a few days ago (in the car, of course).

Rowdy, with a sigh, "Well, I just wish the Zombie Apocalypse WOULD happen"

Me, noting his serious tone, "WHAT?" (not exactly a shriek, but really, "Zombie Apocalypse?)

Rowdy, "It's just that I really wouldn't have to worry about getting into college and getting a good job if it happened."

Me, "You would want the world as we know it to END, just so you don't have to go to college?"

Rowdy, "Yes. Becuase I know how to handle the zombies. Just not college."

He also assured me he would make sure we (his immediate family) would survive as well...well, for as long as we could. I would probably get eaten first.

I put my "college planning" part of his high school experience in the fail column that day.

But if a zombie got me, what would he say at my funeral? That's the main thing.