I Will Never Be The Perfect Mom

Try as I might, it will never happen.  I might as well admit it right now.  I will never, ever, ever be the PERFECT MOM.  I know, it sounds impossible.  But its time for me to face the cold, hard facts. 

It doesn’t matter that I can converse about Pokémon.  It doesn’t matter that I can name several characters from My Little Pony. (There’s Sadie and Lickety Split and Buttercup.)  It doesn’t matter that I willingly watch The Suite Life of Zac and Cody and Hannah Montana.  Perfection in motherhood will always elude me.

The source of my failure can be traced to one simple thing. 

Playdough.

I hate Playdough.  I loathe Playdough.  I despise Playdough.  And because of this, I will always fall short of motherly perfection.

Children, of course, love Playdough.  They love to mix the pink with the blue.  They love to squash it between their fingers.  They love to cram it up their noses and stomp it into the carpet and put it in their sister’s hair and feed it to the cat and….and….Oh, the humanity. 

In our hall closet, we have a big box full of Playdough.  Pink.  Purple. Red. Green.  We have big cans and little cans.  Much of it has never been opened or used.   And if I had my way, the Playdough box would never see the light of day.

But despite my best efforts, the children refuse to reject Playdough.  It’s fun, they say.  (Sure, they don’t have to clean up the mess.)  So, every few months they convince me to pull out the Playdough box and let them have a go.  And every few months, in an effort to resume my quest for perfection, I give in. That’s why I just spent the past half hour cleaning pink doughy gunk off the bottom of Beth’s sneaker. 

I’ve tried to enjoy Playdough.  I’ve tried to sit with my children and squish and mold it. I’ve tried to create and build.   But I can’t get over the feeling that no matter how hard I try, someone is going to walk away with a knot of gooey gunk stuck to the back of their head. 

In my mind, Playdough  is pure evil. 

I use to believe there was nothing worse in all of the world, until my Mom came to visit last spring.  “Look at this.” Mom said with a smile.  “I brought some toys for the kids.”

I opened up the box Mom handed me.  “What’s this stuff?” I asked as I popped open the lid on a blue sandy substance.  The kids danced around me and clapped their hands. 

“It’s called Moon Sand.” Mom said.  “I think it’s like Playdough.”   She sounded so innocent.  But I knew the truth.

“Why do you hate me?” I asked.

Mom just smiled, titled her head and turned away.  For some reason, I suspect I know what she was thinking. 

Revenge.  Sweet, sweet revenge.