Doing the best I can...Erica Jong gave me permission

Parenting is hard work.
Duh, you might say.
But in hindsight, did you ever really think about all the challenges you might face when you were picking out the layette?
The not knowing and living as it comes, is all part of the fun in raising a family. Yet, it is still scary.
The pressure to do everything well and by the societal book is daunting.
Someone always says, "Where was the mother?"
The judgement police or the real-life mommy mean girls in @nerdyapple's viral blog post about her 5 year old son dressing as Daphne from Scooby Doo, are always ready to pounce.
It can be hard to dismiss the head trash.
Erica Jong's essay in the Wall Street Journal today - Mothering Madness - kind of slapped me back to reality.
Like Jong, I too am  tired of looking at celebrity mom photos toting around their babies while jet setting when you know darn well their bazillion dollar pay checks, nurses, maids, drivers, cooks, tutors and whatever else not captured in the photo tell a very different story.
I don't need mothering tips from Giselle.
The simple words, "Do your best," that Jong used at the end of her essay let me breathe.
I have spent the last week having nightmares about 4th grade homework. I have what-iffed over insufficient flashcards, worried about Robin Hood in Spanish and stressed over whether the Spanish was Spain Spanish or Latin American. My dusty dictionary from college is Spain Spanish.
This dialect dilemma was only interrupted by repetitive thoughts to whisk my son to the barber when he does not want to go. He is growing his hair like Tom Brady. (Again, thanks Giselle.)
I stop obsessing about locks just in time to read the school newsletter that says, "Please be sure to read to your child every night"...(Because if you don't you are a the most unengaged, sorry excuse for a parent that ever lived!)
OK, the newsletter did not really say the last part, but the directive moved me to action and simultaneously consumed me with guilt.
 I read five books in a row to my kindergartner, including a BobThe Builder page turner, because I nearly forgot I had a second child having spent so much of my week in 4th grade.
So thanks for the smack Erica Jong.
I needed that.

Burps overfloweth

I'm taking the plunge to write this blog. I've been kicking it around in my head for several months. It started with my friend Bea saying, "I just can't believe you have two boys. It is so funny."

My maternal circumstances could be funny for several reasons, I suppose. But I think Bea was getting at the fact that I am a stereotypical girl's girl. Entering the world of boys and just trying to navigate never mind lead is a challenge. Sometimes I find myself thinking and even googling whether there are books on how to manage.

Take burping for instance.

I don't get the attraction.

But D is in love with this croaking guttural sound that seems to come from his tiny toes and up out of his body like something in a horror movie.

"What? It just came up..." he says with a sly, half grin, when I shoot him the best "aggravated mom" pinched-face look I can muster.

I have tried different tactics to wean him from his affection for burping. Most make me question my sanity because of the things I hear myself say.

"D, we don't do that in a restaurant." Which,of course people, do.

Or then I try to cover, not so much for D but for my own embarrassment.

"D!" I say loudly and for the benefit of other restaurant patrons in the nearby booth. "Say excuse me and let's have good manners."

D replies: "EGG-CUSE ME!' in a tone louder than his burp.

At preschool pick up one day, burping was in full swing. Dwas doing it...his friend was doing it.

Instead of sternly saying knock it off....which doesn't work either....I say:

"D I am not willing for you to burp like this here. You can burp in your playroom when you get home."

He burps again.

"D where can you burp?"

Let me stop this now because it's sad and a designated burping area doesn't seem to work either.

A friend told me I need to ignore him and his burping and go about my life.

On the ride home...burp burp burp. I grip the steering wheel harder but say nothing.

When I open his car door.......BURP........I say nothing.

"Mom, hey mom, did you hear me?"

No, I say.

"I just burped," he said.

Really?

Hmmm. I must have missed that one.

He burped again to make sure I heard him.