I’m somebody’s mom. Actually, I’m two somebody’s mom, but that reads funny and doesn’t have the impact I was going for so “I am somebody’s mom.” I’ve been one for nearly nine years now, and I think I’ve got the hang of it. It’s taken two c-sections, a CT scan, a stolen pen, failed tests and the possibility of orthodontia. But I think I’m getting there. You’ll notice that these events have one thing in common: a litany of failures. No one goes into motherhood giddy over abdominal surgery and every parent who awaits the results of their toddler’s CT is hopeful that CPS won’t have carted them off before the doctor comes back. And who’s not convinced that failing a fourth grade science test dooms there daughter to a life of, ugh, retail sales? Orthodontia pretty much speaks for itself. The failures pop out at you, like putting purple eyeliner on the lid of a green eye…POP. Parenting success is more like peach blush…blends nicely so no one knows its there. It’s a screw job for both you and your kids. I should be touting her swimming medal, his selection to the All-Star Game his first year in baseball, and her B+ average. Nope. Just the bad bits. Why? Who knows? Maybe you don’t want to be “That Parent.” (Oh, and you know who you are. Reliving your lost (misspent?) youth through your child who doesn’t really want to play soccer, but feels obligated since at least one of you is taking so much joy in it.) Or maybe you’re mean and miserable, incapable on acknowledging anything good in your life. Or maybe you’ve learned so much more about yourself in those moments than you’ve ever learned in success. When my daughter was found to be in a breech position at 36 weeks, I learned that I lied to my husband, my doctor and anyone else who suggested that delivering a healthy baby was more important than how the kid got there. I wanted my labor, my epidural and my delivery just like everyone else. I wanted to sweat like a pig, be even meaner to everyone around me than I was when I was pregnant and sink into medicated bliss as the anesthesiologist slipped back out into the hall. I wanted to push and be called “a trouper”. Wasn’t too excited about the whole “tearing” thing, but was nearly convinced that it was a small price to pay for fulfilling my female destiny, or some such nonsense. Turns out, I rocked scheduled c-sections. I mean, I was good. Easy going (no, really, I was.) relaxed, all smiles and no sweating. And a healthy little girl. On the downside: Terrified of standing upright for two weeks and serious “voiding” issues. I will leave it at that. When my son fell off the play structure and sustained pretty good concussion, I learned that one never really loses the craving for a cigarette; they just get good at pushing it away. I quit to get married and really never regretted the choice…until I sat in the ER on Memorial Day waiting to see how bad it really was. My initial need was to barf, but since he’d already done that three times, I felt adding to that would be overkill. While I was filling out the reams of paperwork required, I could smell the fresh smoke on the man behind me. What was a distant calling in my brain became a shrill screech in my ear: Nothing a butt couldn’t get you through. Thank God Security arrived to “take me back” (Since when did the ER get so dangerous? I remember being told to follow the color-coded lines to get where I needed to be. I wandered unattended for days back there, but that’s another story.) The kid was fine: groggy and smelling like rotten milk, but fine. And then there’s orthodontia. Let’s face it. That’s your own genetic failure visited upon your children. The sins of the mother and all that. My daughter is a nearly perfect clone of me, right down to a wicked overbite. She’s a finger-sucker. Has been since they pulled her out and plopped her on the warming table (You’ll remember, she was born via c-section and I was busy begging the anesthesiologist for generous post-op pain med orders.) At four, the dentist suggested she be broken of the habit as she was totally screwing up her bite. Given that “two fingers” were a source of comfort for her (that doesn’t read right, either, but I’m not sure how else to say it.) we decided, eh, let her go. We’ll deal with it later. She’s nearly nine. We’re now staring down the barrel at “two-phase” treatment plans and headgear. I’d like to be able to blame her. I would. I don’t need any more guilt, but I went through the same things and never sucked more than spaghetti off my plate. So. My education will continue. I just hope the learning curve’s not so steep.