I am not my mother

I made a mental list last night of all the things I had done the previous week that my mother would never have done: had two glasses of wine with dinner; let my daughter play with the neighbor boy even though he had pink-eye (I needed a break); spent fifteen minutes in front of a magnifying mirror with tweezers, trying to tame my eyebrows; went to see Sex and the City at 10:45 at night with a girlfriend; let my daughter eat EZ Mac for breakfast; allowed laundry to pile up, washed and dried, because I was too lazy to go looking for hangers; danced to a CD in the den—just because; wrote on my laptop in bed; let my daughter sleep between me and my husband—just because; left my husband in charge of the kids so I could attend critique group.

It’s not that I’m a lot different than she. We really are a lot alike. We both like to cook, and I’m pretty much a homebody. The major difference is I am a little more relaxed about how I live my life. I enjoy my family, but I know I can start to feel resentful if I let their schedules override mine every time. I also differ in that I totally believe my husband is more than capable of parenting as well as I.

Now that summer is here, it will be easy for me to become Momma Taxi and, before I know it, school will be back in session and I’ve done nothing but chauffeur kids around town. So, call me selfish (You’re selfish!), but I am giving myself permission to not let my kids dictate my schedule. If they want to go to the pool, they can figure out a way to get there. Soccer camp this week at the high school? I wrote the check, but you can ride your bike. There. I don’t think my mom would say that, but I bet she wished she did.